Sharp Seville Oranges
by Steadfast-Bright-Star
Summary: Spamano AU. Lovino has always lived in the shadow of his artistic prodigy younger brother and longs to have his own life. Armed with a pair of flamenco shoes and a dream, he decides to pursue a life as a dancer in Seville. But his plans don't exactly work out and the future looks bleak... Until he meets a mysterious yet brilliant guitarist, the enigmatic king of flamenco.
1. Chapter 1

Lovino was dancing. Heedless of his surroundings, he moved in time with the music blaring from his earphones, his heeled dance shoes hammering the stone floor of the kitchen, the only room large enough to practise in, as he let his habitual scowl fall from his face and be replaced by a wistful half-smile. Dancing was the only release for him, the only way for him to come anywhere close to happiness. His eyes slid shut as the dramatic strumming of the guitar became louder, the melody raw and ragged. Then, his hip struck the sharp corner of the table and the spell was broken. Swearing, he pulled his earphones out, rubbing at the sore spot as he resurfaced from his trance. In the silence, he heard his brother calling his name.

'Lovi! Lovi!' He stood up straighter, the high-pitched voice already beginning to give him a headache.

'What do you want?' he demanded, then sighed as he heard Feliciano's feet on the stairs and then along the hallway until he appeared in the doorway.

'Grandad wants to talk to you. He didn't say what about.' Lovino took a moment to look his brother up and down. He was wearing his usual painter's apron, marked with an abstract pattern of swirls and dashes from years of work and there were flecks of paint covering his delicate hands. This was Feliciano, the artistic prodigy, the sixteen-year-old already being hailed as a latter-day Renaissance master. Lovino, despite being two years older, had grown up in his shadow. He grimaced, not looking forward to a conversation with his grandfather.

'Alright then. But if he wants to have a go at me I swear to God I'll just walk straight out of there.' He pushed past his brother without a further word and began to climb the stairs to his grandfather's study, deliberately making as much noise as possible with his shoes.

The study was a strange place; half-library, half-museum, it was filled with his grandfather Giulio's impressive collection of books in Latin and Italian and countless Roman artefacts. A full-size statue of the god Apollo stood in one corner and smaller figurines were lined neatly along the windowsill. A replica memorial plaque, bearing the inscription _'Vitam Bonam Vixi' _took pride of place on the wall. And, like a grand emperor, Lovino saw his grandfather, the once-eminent scholar on Ancient Rome, sitting there at his desk amid his treasures.

'Ah, Lovi, there you are. Please sit down. We have a lot to discuss.' Lovino unwillingly took a seat, perching on the edge.

'I was busy,' he muttered. His grandfather sighed. He was surprisingly young-looking for a man of his age, but the strain of raising two orphaned grandsons had taken its toll on him.

'I'm sure you were, Lovi. But much as you love all this dancing, we need to talk seriously about your future. You're eighteen now. In a month, you'll have finished school. Much as I'm disappointed that you're not going to university, I still want the best for you.' Lovino got up, angrily pushing the chair back as he did so. He should have known that he was in for another lecture.

'There's nothing to discuss. I'm going to be a dancer.' he said defiantly Giulio's look of disappointment changed to one of anger.

'Sit down, young man! Now, I accept that you're young and inclined to be rebellious – I was like you myself once – but you're at a crossroads in your life now. Which road you choose to take will determine the path of your whole life. You can't waste your time clicking your heels on a street in Rome and picking up spare change. You need a stable income. I always hoped that you'd be the one to settle down with a nice girl and have a couple of children. I'll leave you this house, you know that.' His tone was emollient, but Lovino refused to be placated.

'For God's sake, you _know _I'm not interested in girls. Why can't you accept that? You don't have any problem with Feliciano and that stupid German. Or is he allowed to be gay because he's an _artist_? Is it because, as long as he keeps churning out those paintings and making you rich, he can do whatever the hell he wants?'

'How dare you…' Lovino went on regardless, not caring how much trouble he was in. He was beyond all that.

'And I _will _dance. It's as much an art as Feliciano's paintings. I don't want a nice secure job and a nice house and a nice wife and nice kids. And I certainly don't want this crumbling old thing that you can't be bothered to maintain. I'm going to explore the world. I'm not going to be like you, decaying with your precious Romans in a boring, irrelevant corner of Italy. So I'll tell you what you can do. Give me my inheritance now and I'll leave as soon as school's over.' Giulio shook his head, his face crinkled in a heavy frown.

'Lovino, I know you're not religious, but even you must know the story of the Prodigal Son.' Lovino made a contemptuous noise.

'Yes, I know it. But I won't waste all my money like he did. And I will never, ever beg your forgiveness.'

…

Lovino was still in a terrible mood later that evening when he wheeled his rickety old bike out of the garage, his flamenco shoes in a bag slung over his shoulder, leaving for his dance lesson. Giulio had refused to give him any money, only allowing him to take the meagre amount he had in his bank account. A few years' birthday money did not add up to much, even with interest added. But he would go, no matter what. The town he had lived in since his parents had died when he was four and Feliciano two was one of those ancient, ochre-coloured Italian places, dried out and compressed under the boundless, saturated-blue Mediterranean sky. And he hated it, particularly since his family was so well known there. Feliciano the master painter was famous all over Europe and his renown was spreading. Giulio had written some highly-respected academic books in his time. And then there was Lovino, the 'other brother', the one with an untameable fire in him, a perpetual scowl always heavy on his face and the sharp edge of his tongue only an ill-advised comment away. He didn't care, having always consoled himself with the thought that he would one day be just as famous as them, if not more so.

He had the misfortune to arrive at the small hall where the dance lessons were held just as the youngest class was letting out. He paused by the fence and watched the crowd of four-year-olds in pink leotards as they giggled and squealed, practising clumsy pirouettes or forcing their short, chubby legs into uncertain arabesques. He'd started lessons that young and from early on had shown skill. In the sea of pink currently emerging from the building, he couldn't spot a single boy. He'd been the only one in his class and for the first few months the girls had been reassuringly gender-blind. Once they'd started school and the gap between girls and boys widened they'd begun to tease him and laugh at him, even though he had far more talent than most of them. By the age of thirteen, all the casual hobbyists had long ago dropped out of the class leaving only the finely-muscled, elegant determined dancers. Having known him for years by then, they had pretty much got used to him by then, although he did occasionally overhear whispered speculations as they wondered if he was gay or not. He kept quiet, knowing he wasn't exactly in the best position to challenge that particular male-dancer stereotype. Now, though, there were only two of them left in the class.

Once the crowd had dissipated, he went into the dance studio to find Natalya, the other member of his class, already warming up at the barre. She belonged to the frighteningly gaunt, alarmingly athletic school of Russian ballerinas. Her skills had long ago surpassed what tuition the small dance school could provide and her reasons for attending were the same as his – to have time to practise away from any distractions. He watched her for a moment as her supple limbs moved effortlessly into the positions that the little girls in the first class had so desperately tried to imitate. Lit by the soft Impressionist light of early evening that filtered through the high windows, she resembled a Degas painting. She always practised in full-skirted costumes, saying she liked the feel of the material swishing around her legs as she moved. Then he took a step into the room and she stopped, her face twisting into an expression of distaste.

'Oh, it's you,' she muttered darkly, before returning to her exercises. Lovino rolled his eyes. Their closely-matched, irascible, artistic personalities certainly made it difficult to share a studio space.

'Have you finished warming up?' he asked, kneeling by the iPod dock to plug his music in.

'Don't you dare! My music first. You can warm up, and don't make too much noise with those tap shoes or I swear to God…' He straightened up.

'Whatever. Where's Elizaveta? I need to talk to her.' Natalya scoffed.

'Dealing with some child who no longer wants to learn ballet because she can't dance like a professional at the age of five.' Without a further word, she plugged her own iPod into the dock and began to dance, tracing delicate patterns in the air with her hands, her body, her pointed toes. Lovino slipped out of the room, making an extra amount of noise with his flamenco shoes – anyone who called them tap shoes deserved whatever they got – and went to find his teacher, the Hungarian former ballerina who commanded a formidable stage presence, whether she was merely demonstrating first position to a group of four-year-olds or dancing Odette in _Swan Lake_ as she had so often done in the past.

'Do you have a minute?' he asked, poking his head around the door of her office. At the sound of his voice, Elizaveta looked up and smiled. She had a special affection for him, her only male student.

'Of course, Lovino. What is it you want to ask me?' He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

'My granddad's being an idiot and saying I can't be a dancer. He's so annoying, just always going on about how I need a stable job and all that. And he won't shut up about me going to uni – he keeps whining about how it's not too late, how he's got all these contacts from when he was working who could get me onto some course to do business or Latin or something else he knows I don't want to do.' She gave him a sympathetic look.

'It's always hard. Parents or grandparents or whoever just don't always realise when you're serious about things. I think you should definitely go for flamenco like you've always wanted to. You have a fury in you that I think makes you a little too intense for ballet.' He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

'Yeah, yeah I know. It's not like I care about whatever the hell he says or anything. I'm going anyway. But where?' Elizaveta smiled.

'Well, I think you should try Seville. It's beautiful and it's the flamenco capital of Spain. I can't guarantee it'll be easy. You know it won't be. But it's your best bet to go there.'

….

Seville. Lovino recited the name over and over again in his mind during his whole ride home, until he could almost hear the exotic two syllables in the creaking of the wheels as he cycled. As soon as he got home, he dumped his bike in the front garden and raced upstairs to his room. Seville… Seville… He typed it into Google and immediately clicked on the Wikipedia article, the first result. With a frantic speed born out of excitement, he scrolled down, the page, only registering a couple of words every paragraph. It didn't matter. He already knew he was going. One month, he thought to himself, one month and he would leave with his money and his flamenco shoes and start a new life for himself in Spain.

'What are you doing?' He looked up sharply as Feliciano opened the door a crack and peered in.

'For God's sake, Feli, learn to knock!' Feliciano's permanent smile faltered.

'Why? You're my brother. Can't I talk to you when I want?' He opened the door a little wider and walked into the room, sitting on Lovino's bed and looking around.

'Stand up! You'll get paint all over the duvet. What do you even want? I thought you were going out with that stupid German tonight.' Feliciano sighed.

'He couldn't come. It's only Wednesday and he has loads of homework. Ludi's really nice, you know. I don't know why you don't like him. I wish we could all be friends.' He stood up and went over to Lovino, hovering irritatingly close to his shoulder. 'Why are you looking at places in Seville? Are you going there on holiday? Granddad was going to take us to Florence.' Lovino shifted his chair so that they weren't so close together.

'He's taking _you_ for your exhibition. I'm moving to Seville. As soon as school's over, I'm leaving Italy. I want to be a flamenco dancer. I will be a flamenco dancer.' he amended. Feliciano had a look on his face that suggested he had no idea why anyone would want to do that.

'Ok. Well, I'd best get back to my painting. I used Ludi as the model and…' Lovino held up his hand.

'Eugh. No. Don't want to hear it. This is worse than all your PDAs put together.' Feliciano shrugged and, seeing that he had outstayed his welcome, went out, shutting the door with a click as he did so.

Lovino sat up a little straighter and swiped irritably at his eyes. There was no way he was crying, no way. There was just a bit of dust in them, nothing more. It wasn't like he was jealous of Feliciano or anything. It wasn't like he cared that he was by far and away the better of the two of them and unquestionably Giulio's favourite grandson. A distant memory floated into his mind of Giulio telling them the story of Romulus and Remus, a heavily censored version where Romulus decided to team up with his brother rather than killing him. Bleakly, Lovino wondered whether he and Feliciano could ever be the way they had been when they were little. Feliciano had needed him then to cope with the bullies and taunts that came when you were a quiet, sensitive boy. Then, when Feliciano's talents had begun to attract attention, he had become suddenly popular. He didn't need his big brother anymore. But, Lovino thought as he searched the mess of his desk for a tissue, it wasn't like it bothered him or anything. It wasn't like he was jealous of Ludwig because he occupied a special place in Feliciano's heart, something Lovino himself no longer did. Stupid dust. His eyes were really watering now.

…..

The plane was late. Of course it was. Lovino sighed deeply and sat down cautiously on one of the always slightly sticky seats. He tried to read his book but found he couldn't settle to it. He hated airports. Other people tended to annoy him. Not that he was shy or anything, no way. Just three days ago, he had left school with all the boring ceremony that involved. Feliciano had clapped and cheered him and Giulio had worn a small smile of paternal pride. Lovino had felt a strange and rare pang of gratitude to the man who had raised him, who had forced him to work hard at school, who had on more than one occasion come downstairs at night and forced him to go up to bed because the music would still be there in the morning. He'd had his last dance lesson. Elizaveta had given him a beautiful, brand-new pair of flamenco shoes as a farewell gift. Natalya had given him a tiny hug and then informed him that she still hated him. She was going off to Moscow, and dragging her timid boyfriend Toris with her, to train as an icily graceful ballerina in one of the great Russian theatres.

Just a couple of hours ago, Feliciano and Giulio had waved him off and wished him well. He had never realised how small and thin his brother was, nor how old his grandfather suddenly looked. But it wasn't like Feliciano needed him. Even through the haze of his jealousy, he could see that his brother's paintings were truly phenomenal. But he had never wanted to be the older Vargas brother. He wanted to be himself. The siblings had hugged each other for the first time in months and, just his luck, some more dust had got into his eyes. But they were gone now. He perked up as he heard an announcement saying that his plane was now ready to board. Picking up the backpack containing his precious new shoes, some clothes and a few hundred euros, the entire contents of his bank account, he stood up and headed for the gate.

At least he had a window seat. That way, he'd only have to sit next to one stranger. He leaned into the armrest, watching as the people running back and forth on the ground made the final preparations for take-off. A surreal feeling of detachment had come over him. This was it. He was really going to Seville, really going to try his luck at being a dancer. In about two and a half hours, he would touch down in another country and his life would begin. He reached into his bag and withdrew his Teach Yourself Spanish book. Perhaps, he thought, he should have learnt a bit of Spanish before he decided to move to Spain. He dismissed the idea. If people didn't speak Italian then that was their problem, not his.

The engines' low hum rose to a shriek as the plane began to move along the runway, picking up speed as it went. It went up onto its back wheels like a child's pull-along toy, then left the ground entirely. He watched as the ancient sprawl of Rome, the Eternal City, shrank and diminished as he watched. He remembered sitting on Giulio's lap on another flight when he was little and listening to him explain about all the Roman ruins as they passed over them. He blinked a few times. Air pollution was really becoming a problem. Something would have to be done about all this dust that kept getting into his eyes. Because it wasn't like he was crying or anything, no way. He was an adult now. He was independent. He didn't need anyone but himself.

…..

**Vitam Bonam Vixi = I lived a good life**

**Author's Note: Hey guys, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! This is my first time writing Lovino as a main character, so please tell me if I've got his character right. If you're wondering, I've called Roman Empire 'Giulio' because I couldn't find a human name for him so I made his name the Italian version of Julius (Caesar). **


	2. Not What He Hoped For

'_Travellers looking for really cheap accommodation will find it in the hostels that provide a bed for the night and not much else. Prices should not exceed more than about thirty euros per night but be prepared to share a room.' _Lovino flicked his guidebook shut and stood up, a little stiff from sitting on the cold bench for so long. That was settled then. Nowhere else to go except some hostel. Not that it bothered him. According to his book, the cheapest one of all was a good half-hour's walk away and it was beginning to get dark. Sighing to himself, he pulled his bag a little higher on his shoulder and forced his tired legs to move. It wasn't like he was homesick or anything, but he was seriously craving a bowl of pasta. As he walked, he cursed his grandfather for not letting him have any money.

'He just expects me to go home so he can have that stupid 'I told you so' smile on his stupid jerk face.' he muttered to himself, ramming his hands into his pockets and kicking a discarded coke can across the road. It wasn't yet dark but the colour had begun to leach from some parts of the sky, leaving it that curious peachy shade it always took on before the black of night came to replace the blue. The sand-coloured buildings glowed orange in the dying light, their elegant scrollwork like melting loops of candle wax. He let a tiny smile to rise to his lips for a moment. Feliciano would love the place, he thought. Now, was it a left or a right here…

…..

Lovino looked around him in disgust. The room was not small but had three beds in it, two of which were strewn with clothes, books and sweet wrappers, the third being bare of anything but a mattress. With leaden steps, he walked over to the empty bed and dumped his pile of sheets, blankets, pillows and pillowcases. He felt oddly weightless, but not in the buoyant sense. He felt as though he was in a hot air balloon, flying madly and free over an unfamiliar landscape and with no way to get down. After some linguistic fumbling, he'd learnt from the receptionist that, for the princely sum of twenty-five euros per night, he had this unappealing room shared with two other young men who had yet to make an appearance, along with a rather nasty-sounding breakfast in the morning. Any other cooking he'd have to do himself. There were three showers between about twenty people, no TV and no Internet. All in all, he thought grimly, a Spartan life. He looked at his watch and saw that it was coming up for ten o'clock. With a guilty start, he realised that he'd forgotten to call home.

Giulio picked up immediately on the first ring and Lovino felt a little twist of sadness as he heard his grandfather's comfortingly familiar voice.

'Hey Lovi. Did you get everything figured out ok? Where are you sleeping?' He ran his finger idly across the mattress, then stopped abruptly when he noticed the stains on it. Disgusting, he thought, his scowl darkening.

'Umm… Yeah, everything's great. I have a room in a hotel and I'm… Er… I'll start looking for a place to dance in the morning. Yeah. You know, there are so many flamenco bars I bet half of them don't even have any dancers. It'll be so easy.' he said defiantly. In truth, he had no idea of where he should go to become a dancer. It wasn't like he was regretting his hasty decision or anything, it was just that a tiny part of him was half-wondering whether he should have prepared a little more. Just then, he heard the click of a key in the lock and two loud voices, clearly raised in argument, spilled in, accompanied by their owners.

'Lovino? Who's there with you? Are you sure you're ok?' Giulio's voice had taken on a note of panic. Lovino gripped the phone a little tighter.

'They're just random people. I'm fine. I'm in the bar, see. I'm having a drink because I can because I'm eighteen now. I'm an adult and I can totally look after myself.' He heard Giulio sigh quietly, hundreds of miles away. Behind him, the two who'd just come in at least had had the decency to tone down their argument while he was on the phone.

'Do you have a moment? Feli really wants to talk to you,' his voice became lower, 'and he's been upset all day. I know you're not as close as you used to be but he really misses you.' Lovino bit his lip, a painful swelling forming in his throat at the thought of his younger brother.

'Ok. But just for a minute.' He heard a murmured conversation on the other end of the line, then a rustle as the phone changed hands.

'Hello Lovi! How's your adventure going?'

'It's fine. I hope you haven't gone into my room and got paint all over everything.' Feliciano giggled.

'No way! I've been keeping busy. Actually, I've been kind of sad today. Ludi came round but he didn't cheer me up because I miss you. Lovi, please don't hate him. He just wants to be nice to me. And I love him.' Lovino took a deep breath, his jealousy towards Ludwig lessening a little with the realisation that he hadn't been replaced by him.

'Alright, alright. But tell that potato lover that if he ever breaks my baby brother's heart, I'll go to his house in the middle of the night and dismantle his precious model German warplane thingy, whatever it is. And make him watch. And then I'll kill him.' Feliciano laughed again.

'Ok, I'll tell him! Well, I'd better go to bed. Me and granddad have an early start for Florence tomorrow. Oh, and he's letting me bring Ludi with us. I can't wait!' Lovino pulled a face, glad Feliciano couldn't see him.

'Feli. TMI. Just because I don't hate him anymore doesn't mean I like him.'

'Ok. Goodnight!'

'Goodnight.'

There was a click, then a beep as Feliciano hung up. In a daze, Lovino dropped the phone onto the bed. He sniffed a couple of times, then wiped his eyes with his hand. There was no dust this time. He was just crying. Behind him, his new roommates had started up their argument again, until one of them addressed him.

'Hey there,' he said. Lovino whipped round, his arms already folded defensively to look at the man who had spoken, a blond with sparkling green eyes and dense brows. 'I noticed you were speaking Italian. I happen to know the language myself.'

'Your accent sucks.' he snapped back, trying to disguise the tearful thickness in his voice. He hated talking to people and made no effort to hide it. Nonetheless, the man only laughed ruefully.

'Yes, I know. That's the thing about English accents. You can never get rid of them. Anyway, I'm Arthur.' He extended his hand. Lovino regarded it with disdain.

'Who's that other one?' he demanded, jerking his head in the direction of the other man, who was sitting on his bed fixing his hair in a pocket mirror. Arthur grimaced.

'Oh God, him. That's Francis, even more irritating than the average Frenchman. You know, I had this room to myself before _he _arrived.' His face softened a little. 'He's ok, I guess. An alright friend. But we still argue an awful lot. I think he enjoys it.'

'What are you even doing here? I thought English people hated going abroad.' Lovino muttered, turning away and beginning to put the cases on his pillows.

'I'm a writer. I'm researching a novel.' At this, Francis burst out laughing. In extremely broken Italian, he informed Lovino:

'He works in a bar!' Suddenly, Lovino had had enough. All he wanted to do was be back at home in his room that he didn't have to share, with a dance lesson to look forward to and the smell of pasta and the sound of Feliciano's singing as he prepared the dinner. He curled up on the unmade, uninviting bed and tried unsuccessfully to blot out the others' conversation. He felt a very long way from home.

….

'Hey! Hey! Wake up!' Lovino, in his half-asleep state, took the voice to be that of Feliciano summoning him for another oppressive day at school. He stuck his arm out, shoving the speaker away, and pressed his face deeper into the pillow. Its faintly unpleasant smell was what told him that he was no longer in Italy.

'What do you want?' he mumbled irritably into the pillow. He'd had barely five hours' sleep. Half-opening one eye, he saw that it was Arthur who'd woken him.

'It's nine-thirty. We all have to be out by ten. Didn't the receptionist tell you?' Lovino sat bolt upright. This was news to him.

'What the hell?' he moaned, rubbing angrily at his sleep-filled eyes. 'No one said! I was supposed to be getting dressed up all nice to go looking for work.' Arthur perched on the bed beside him.

'What was it you were planning to do?' he asked kindly.

'I'm going to be a flamenco dancer. I just need to find one of those dance bars where they have a vacancy.' Arthur's face took on a look of shock.

'My God! Don't you know? These places have links to all the dance schools. It's a complete patronage network. I don't mean to upset you, but you haven't got a hope in hell of getting into any one of these performance venues.' Lovino stared at him in mute horror. He couldn't believe it. Well, he should have known, he thought bitterly. Of course it would happen to him. Just his luck that the one thing he wanted to do was the one thing he couldn't.

'Yeah? Well maybe that's for the ones who really suck at dancing. But once they see me, they'll all be lining up.' Arthur shook his head. His expression was one of pity, telling Lovino that his false bravado was fooling no one.

'Don't you worry. They're always looking for new odd-job boys in that bar where I work. I'll help you get a job. How's your Spanish?' Lovino rolled his eyes.

'Nonexistent.' he said defiantly, daring Arthur to mock, though he just gave a little smile.

'Well, you don't need to speak to wash glasses.'

…

The bar was very definitely not of the best calibre. The floor was sticky. The walls had pictures of now-obscure footballers and winners of arcane flamenco competitions on them, with unattractive yellowish plasterwork showing in between the frames. The bar itself had none of the sophisticated drinks to be found at the better sort of places – the choice was three types of beer or water. And the customers were a rowdy bunch, their laughter and chat stretching Lovino's nerves to breaking point as he dunked glass after glass into tepid water, swilled them out, gave them a desultory rub with a grimy cloth and placed them in the drying rack. A faint pain was developing in his lower back from the constant bending and straightening. Beside him, Arthur began to sing the tenor line of a melody Lovino vaguely remembered from his churchgoing childhood. The noise did not help his mood one bit.

'Shut up!' he hissed. Arthur looked wounded.

'I was only singing. Maybe not very well, but still. I'm the one who got you this job. So be a bit nicer.' His voice was sad and he stared fixedly into the washing water.

'God, don't get all moody on me.' Lovino snapped, applying his drying cloth with a little more violence.

'You're not the only one with a dream,' Arthur retorted. 'I wanted to be an opera singer. It's why I speak Italian. My parents told me I was brilliant. I was a choirboy for six years and everything. Then, when I went to my audition for the music school, they laughed right at me. Laughed. My parents lied to me. I couldn't sing, never.' He sniffed and a tear dropped into the sink, indistinguishable as soon as it dropped into the murk.

'Whatever. Sorry. Just don't cry. And thanks for the job, I guess.' Lovino mumbled. He didn't like apologising. Some people called it arrogance. He preferred the term 'knowing he was right'.

One of the customers had produced a guitar and was playing it, to the approbation of the less sober drinkers. Lovino winced. Though the instrument was seriously out of tune, the melody was a lively flamenco. He tried not to think of the hundreds of dancers across the city, stamping and twirling to similar tunes, skirts flying, castanets going at superhuman speeds, percussive heels against wooden floors. Almost unconsciously, he tapped out the sprightly beat with his own heel. He'd worn his flamenco shoes to work. He didn't know why. Behind him, the music sped up and the sound became less pleasant as the speed distorted it beyond recognition. Beside him, Arthur had pressed his teeth firmly into his bottom lip, trying to stop himself from crying even more. _I hate this place _Lovino chanted in his mind. _I hate it_. His whole body was pulsing with desire – no, desperation – to dance, to get his release. He wanted to do something reckless. He thought back to when he'd stolen a bottle of wine from Giulio's cabinet and drunk the whole thing, only to be violently sick immediately afterwards. He couldn't remember what kind of statement he'd been trying to make.

Really, his whole life seemed to be composed of little angry episodes, of trying to show he was right even when he was wrong. At school, he'd always got into arguments with the teachers over the most trivial questions. At home, everything was a constant battle to prove he was old enough and mature enough to do whatever he wanted. He'd begged for and received a Vespa for his sixteenth birthday, only to crash it on his first ride and break his arm because he wasn't as good at riding it as he'd led Giulio to believe. And now he was in Spain, this stupid pride of his stopping him from doing the only sensible thing and calling home. But, he thought, this time would be different. Whatever Arthur said, he was a brilliant dancer. All he needed now was to find someone who agreed.

…

He and Arthur came in from work at two in the morning. Once the last customers had been thrown out, they had had to clean up every inch of the place, a task that was not to be underestimated. Francis was still out when they arrived.

'What the hell does he _do?_' Lovino asked in confusion. Arthur grimaced.

'I'm afraid he's not quite the stereotypical French waiter. He works in the all-night McDonald's. But don't mention it to him. He's pretty sensitive about it. He wanted to be a chef.' So, Lovino mused, they'd all wanted to be something far removed from what they'd ended up as.

He knelt by his small cupboard and pulled his flamenco shoes off, shoving them to the back and covering them with a T-shirt. He wouldn't be needing them for a while. He could hear Arthur's voice. He was on the phone to someone, speaking English. Lovino had learnt a little at school, though he was barely more than conversant. It wasn't like he was eavesdropping or anything, but… No, he was eavesdropping.

'Hey Al, sweetie… Yes, I'm alright… Four chapters in… What time is it over there?... Oh, right… I won't keep you then… Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your meeting… I love you too… Bye… I miss you.' He hung up and sighed, then sniffed. He was crying again. Lovino suddenly felt a stab of sadness at being away from Giulio and Feliciano. He might not have been his family's biggest cheerleader, but he did keenly feel the separation. He knew he was supposed to call home every night but he didn't have the energy just now. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would try again to achieve his dream.

…..

Three months later, ninety tomorrows, he had not achieved his dream. And yes, he had kept count of the days. As far as Giulio and Feliciano knew, he had a flat all to himself and was performing in shows every night. The reality was totally different. He was still living in that room with Francis and Arthur, who still annoyed each other no end. Francis was no closer to being a chef than he had been three months ago. Arthur was still writing and tearfully calling his boyfriend in America every night, and he still couldn't sing. None of them was happy. The only good thing for Lovino was that his Spanish had improved to the point that he could settle a dispute about late rent payments all on his own.

It was with these depressing thoughts uppermost in his mind that he walked out into the blinding Spanish sun, not in the least bit diminished by the fact that, in places that had seasons, it was supposed to be autumn. What with having to leave at ten in the morning but not starting work until six, coupled with his total lack of money, he had ended up having to spend all his days walking the streets like a tourist in a time loop. Squinting up at the cloudless sky, he turned onto a narrow cobbled street lined with houses at least five hundred years old. He hadn't been down this one before, or at least he didn't remember. From an open window high above him, the first coquettish notes of the _Habanera _from _Carmen _were just about audible in the still air as someone began to sing. A burst of laughter came from a balcony where two women sat chatting. A washing line strung across the alley squeaked under the weight of the wet sheets hanging from it. For a moment, he imagined Feliciano standing beside him. His artist brother would find a thousand things to inspire him in such a scene.

He followed the street's uneven surface until he emerged in a small square decked out with orange trees and benches. Orange trees… Oranges. He was absolutely starving, he realised, and couldn't afford to throw away any money on food. It had been Arthur's turn to cook last night, so he hadn't been able to eat a thing. He went over to one of the trees and grasped the warm skin of one of the oranges in his hand. Guessing that there was no law against taking fruit, he plucked it from the branch and sat down to peel it.

'That's a Seville orange, you know,' Lovino looked up sharply to see who had spoken. A tanned young man was leaning against a wall, a guitar slung casually across his body. He watched Lovino with an amused smile. Lovino scowled at him.

'I know what it is. And why are you talking to me?' The man laughed.

'Well, you clearly don't know what it is. Seville oranges aren't meant for eating.' He looked down at the orange in his hand, beginning to feel a little doubtful. Then again, what could be so awful about a simple piece of fruit? With an air of challenge, he met the stranger's watermelon-green eyes and began to peel. Once all the skin was off, he took a big bite, one eyebrow raised in a 'just watch me' gesture.

God, it was sour! Lovino tried not to gag as the acidic juice seared his throat. He coughed into his hand, choking on the bitterness.

'See what I mean?' What was this guy's problem? Why was he even watching him in the first place? No way he could back down now, though. He had to prove that he was right, like always.

'No, I don't. This is delicious.' He took another bite, then another. Oh, why did the orange have to be so big? His stomach was already sore from the excess acid. Slowly, he finished off the whole thing. The stranger smiled, a little incredulously.

'Wow. I'm impressed. I've never seen anyone eat a whole one before.'

'Whatever, jerk. And stop looking at me. It's creepy.' Lovino stood up, dropping the confetti of orange peel to the ground, and went out of the square. That guy was so annoying. Hopefully, he thought grimly as he began his interminable walking once more, they wouldn't see each other again.

….

**Author's Note: Free Seville orange for every reviewer who guesses who the guitarist is! (Not really). Seriously though, there's a reason Seville oranges are used for marmalade rather than just being eaten! Poor, stubborn Lovino! Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I'll update soon.**


	3. Two Months' Grace

Water, drying cloth, rack… Water, drying cloth, rack… Like an automaton, Lovino followed the by-now-familiar routine as he had now been doing for four months. Beside him, Arthur was doing precisely the same thing, the sleeves of his aspiringly smart shirt rolled up to his elbows and his usual frown in place. Neither one of them said a word, the background noise of the bar more than enough accompaniment to the dreary task. He half-wondered if he'd ever make something of himself, though he'd by now become anaesthetised to the crushing disappointment of his life and youth and begun to view life as something to be endured rather than enjoyed. In his pocket, his phone buzzed against his hip. Arthur cast him a glance.

'Girlfriend?' he asked disinterestedly. 'Or boyfriend. It doesn't matter.'

'Keep it to yourself, jerk,' he muttered, trying to ignore the call that he knew would be Giulio demanding to know why there hadn't been a peep out of him in over a week.

'Just asking,' Arthur replied lethargically. He had been trying to cultivate an Oscar Wilde-esque appearance of a sophisticate, but so far it hadn't worked out very well and had only resulted in Francis making fun of him. The annoying vibration stopped then, as though the phone had been merely pausing for breath, began again. Lovino sighed. He was in trouble.

'Best answer it,' he said by way of explanation as he went out of the back door to the dingy little alley that ran behind the street. He would try to keep the conversation short.

'What is it? I'm busy,' he said, trying to sound like he was in the middle of something. Giulio's reply was barbed and sarcastic.

'Oh, sorry. Did I interrupt your dance?' Lovino looked around the high and darkening walls, trying to think of a suitably snarky response.

'Yeah, you did actually. I'm supposed to be on stage in five minutes.' On the other end of the line, he heard Giulio's exasperated exhalation. He sounded so old, so tired.

'Lovino, I have spent the last week scouring every website I can find for this _El Mentiroso _place where you're supposedly dancing and there's no trace of it anywhere. What do you have to say for yourself?' Lovino swallowed hard, desperately struggling to form a convincing reply. As always, he took a defensive stance.

'Well, maybe it's one of those exclusive places that doesn't have a website.' Giulio's patience had run out.

'Well, give me the address then.

'What?'

'Tell me where it is, Lovino! Prove to me that it exists at all.' Lovino felt hollow, his heart echoing in his empty chest.

'Stop getting involved. It doesn't matter.' He wished he could just hang up and go back to work. His dirty sink had never seemed more inviting than at that moment.

'It matters a lot! You are eighteen years old, young man. You're far too young to be idling away your life in some provincial city. Yes, I travelled in my time and I was rather dissolute in my youth but _I always had a plan_. I would never have just gone around aimlessly. And I would never have invented some fictitious career and lied to my own grandfather.'

'I have a job!' Lovino snapped back.

'Let me guess, you're either a waiter or a bottle-washer. Lovino, I'm not unreasonable. I understand that you're a young man and young men will always want to wander but it's different if you don't have studies to fall back on. So listen to this. I'll give you two more months to become a dancer and do what you came to Seville to do. If you can't do this, I'll bring you home and, mark my words, you'll go to university in September.' He knew that there was no point in arguing.

'Yeah, fine, whatever. I'll do it. You'll see.' He hung up without a further word and went back inside, his mind racing. This was it, then. For once, he would actually have to fulfil one of his silly vows.

…..

Lovino, his brow creased with concentration, slowly read through the leaflet, skipping over the words he didn't understand. His Spanish was now good enough to figure out that it concerned a public flamenco dance event that Friday, with music to be provided by the 'Guitar King', whoever that was. Stupid name, he thought to himself. He didn't want to, as he saw it, compromise his professionalism by going to one of these public things but Giulio's ultimatum meant that he no longer had a choice. His pride was bitter and hard to swallow but down it would have to go, at least until his confidence was matched by success. He looked up at the clock. Four in the morning. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, yawning loudly. He wanted to sleep but there was no point, since the others were out and would only disturb him on their return. He turned his attention back to the leaflet and remained absorbed in it until the door creaked open and he looked up sharply.

'Knock!' Arthur walked in, hair damp from his shower and looking just about as tired as Lovino himself.

'For God's sake, it's my room as much as yours – in fact, I was here before you.' Lovino rolled his eyes.

'Whatever. Hey, about Friday.'

'What?'

'Do you think I could take the evening off? There's this dance thing I want to go to.' Arthur considered for a moment, then his face took on a look of recognition.

'Oh, is it one of those 'Guitar King' affairs?' he enquired. Lovino nodded.

'Yeah. Stupid jerk name, isn't it?' Arthur shrugged.

'Ah, well, I don't know,' he said in a measured tone. 'He has this mystique about him. I've never gone to any of these dance things myself but apparently he wears a bandana across his face. The women go mad for him, this man who no one really knows.'

'Believe me, I'm not going just to flirt with some 'mysterious masked man'. I have serious business to attend to. This could be my big break.'

'Well, it tends to be all in fun but…' Arthur tailed off, deciding to allow Lovino to engage in his little fantasy, at least for now.

…

It had been such a long time since he'd last danced, Lovino thought as he surveyed the large hall while waiting for the music to begin. There was a good turnout, around one hundred people, though to say that the level of professionalism seemed inconsistent would have been an understatement. There were a handful of elegant young people like him with proper flamenco shoes - the migrant dancers as Arthur had termed them during a particularly vociferous argument - but there were also larger middle-aged people, women stuffed into polka-dot dresses that might have fitted them once, wobbling unsteadily in their heels. The overall atmosphere was friendly, groups casually forming and dissipating like iron filings dragged by a magnet, and the freely-flowing wine was a cause for celebration. Lovino sipped his own lukewarm glass slowly and stood apart from the others. He wasn't in the market for new friends. He was there for a solely mercenary reason: to have his talent discovered. Already, he could feel the energy coursing through him, ready to do battle with even the most strenuous rhythm. No matter what anyone said, he was prepared.

Fifteen minutes ticked by and, as more people arrived, the feeling of excitement and celebration became more palpable. Everyone was eager to catch a glimpse of this mysterious 'Guitar King', whose talent was supposedly unsurpassed in all Seville. Lovino personally thought it all sounded rather ridiculous. He hoped they'd begin soon. The flamenco shoes were tighter than he remembered and certainly not the most comfortable attire for standing around in. He drained his glass and went over to the bar for another. Over-sweet and unpleasantly cloying, the wine was really just so that he'd have a glass to hold onto to make himself look cultured. It was true that he wasn't actively on the hunt, but it wasn't as though he'd complain if he managed to attract someone. As long as he wasn't a complete idiot, of course.

Without warning, the lights dimmed and a collective intake of breath came from the assembled dancers. He bolted his half-full glass and hurried to the centre of the room, ready to impress anyone who might have connections. A tall young man slipped through the curtains behind the small stage and made a playful bow to the audience. So this was the Guitar King. Lovino observed him critically. As Arthur had said, the lower half of his face was covered by a scarf decorated with a pattern of tomatoes, but the rest of him was clearly visible. He was dressed neatly but not formally in a mostly-buttoned shirt and skinny jeans. Lovino guessed that he was handsome under his mask, although it was of course impossible to tell. A guitar was slung across his body. Having not said a single word, he sat down on the stool that was the only furniture on the stage and gave a few experimental strums. After a moment's pause, he launched into the first tune. Lovino's breath caught in his throat. This man was good – no, a lot more than good. He played with a passion that was at once free and ordered, emotion contained within the strict form of the music. Lovino felt like dancing for the first time in months. One more drink though, just to remove all the stiffness from his unpractised limbs…

The evening went by in a whirl of pure musical joy. A few girls danced with him but they were all amateurs and couldn't keep up with the machine-gun rapidity of his feet, so he danced alone for most of it. He could feel people's eyes on him as he went through the gloriously familiar motions that he'd done so many times before: in the kitchen at home, at his dance lessons, out in the garden… Dimly aware that a small crowd had formed around him, he stepped it up even further, increasing to an almost frantic speed. There was sweat in his hair and running down his back but he revelled in it and the way it brought back the visceral thrill of physical exercise, of achieving mastery in a skill. The music finished and, with a last flourish, so did he. He let himself smile broadly, if a touch arrogantly, as people applauded. All eyes were on him. Guitar King, he thought, eat your heart out. As he straightened up, however, his shoes began to hurt like nothing on earth and he felt the wetness of blood where they were cutting into his heels. Trying not to limp, he headed to the cloakroom and picked up his bag. Gratefully pulling the uncomfortable shoes off, he changed into his Converse and slung his bag over his shoulder, heading out into the night. Maybe it was the wine that was doing it, but he felt pretty good. Surely, he thought, it could only be a matter of time before the owners of flamenco bars were fighting over who would get the privilege of employing him.

…

In the morning, he woke with an awful feeling that something was terribly wrong. He looked around the room, trying to pinpoint what it could be. Francis was still asleep and Arthur was scribbling in his notepad by light of his phone, so it wasn't either of them. He had suffered no significant injury the previous night and he didn't feel at all sick, so it wasn't that. His phone and wallet were where he always kept them, so he hadn't been robbed. Then it hit him. Desperately wanting to be wrong, he unzipped his bag and thrust his hand in. Empty. He couldn't believe it. How could he have just walked off without his shoes, his most precious possession? He must have been more than just tipsy.

'I can't believe it,' he moaned, running his hands through his hair. Arthur stopped writing.

'What's wrong?' he asked patiently. There was always something wrong with Lovino.

'I left my stupid shoes behind at that dance place last night. And some jerk will have stolen them by now.' Arthur shook his head.

'You don't know that. There are still _some _gentlemen in this world, thank God. Did you have your name written in them?'

'Yeah, but…' Arthur cut him off.

'Then go back at some point today, go to lost property and tell them that you're looking for your shoes. It couldn't be easier.'

…..

Lovino wasn't much given to melodrama, but separated from his shoes he truly felt like part of him was missing. Those shoes were a symbol, as much as anything, of his determination and so far failure to live independently. More than that, they were his most valuable tool when it came to getting himself noticed. He'd seen, and allowed himself to dream about, the expensive bespoke pairs worn by the professionals, but for now his shop-bought style were all he had. He pulled his jacket a little more tightly around himself. November was most definitely here and, while hardly cold, a little sharpening in the air could be discerned. Not much further now to the dance hall, he consoled himself. Once there, he went in and over to the front desk. A pretty young woman was on duty, so he reminded himself to be polite. Giulio had long ago impressed on him the importance of respecting girls and that lesson had stayed with him, although he had no such scruples when it came to men.

'Umm… Hello, do you have lost property here?' God, his accent was so thick. The girl smiled and nodded.

'Yes we do. I'm guessing you left something behind at the flamenco dance.' Her face was kind.

'Yeah, my flamenco shoes. They have my name in them. Lovino Vargas.' She disappeared under the desk for a minute and Lovino could hear muffled banging and rustling as she sought out what he had lost. Eventually, she resurfaced with his shoes in hand.

'Here you are. Oh, and the man who handed them in left a note tucked into the left one. He seemed very keen that you should have these back.' Surprised, he took the shoes and placed them in his bag.

'Well, thank you. I won't leave them behind next time.'

As soon as he was a safe distance away from the dance hall, he sat down on a bench and extracted a neatly-folded piece of paper from his left shoe. The note was short and hastily-written but nonetheless piqued his interest.

_Dear Lovino,_

_Firstly, I guessed your name because it was in your shoes. Unless you borrowed them from someone, in which case sorry about the mistake. I was watching you all evening and you have some pretty impressive moves. A dancer as good as you needs shoes as good as these, so take better care in future._

_Regards,_

There was no signature but in its place was an uncoloured drawing of a tomato with a smiley face. Lovino wasn't quite sure how to react. He remembered that the guitarist the previous night had been wearing a tomato-patterned scarf, so could there be a connection there? One could but wonder, though teaming up with a musician like him could potentially be very useful. As for the note itself… He was on the verge of throwing it away but then paused. It wasn't like he was pleased about the compliment or anything, but he decided he'd best keep it. You know, for handwriting comparison purposes. Just in case this guy ended up stalking him or something.


	4. Stumbling Block

The little blue circle went round and round, seeming to tease Lovino with its frustrating slowness as he waited for the page to load. All around him was the subdued bustle of the library, with shoes clicking softly on the floor, the rustling slide of books being removed, the snipping sound of a page being briskly turned. He felt exposed sitting in the corner at the computer but there was nowhere else to sit and he really, really needed to use a computer right now. Giulio had phoned him in a rage because there was some problem with his bank account and now he was sitting in a small library, staring slack-jawed at the long list of incomprehensible figures. Still, it was better than his usual aimless streetwalking.

The door opened and a note of cold air crept in. Winter had most definitely arrived and Lovino tugged at the knot of his scarf so that it rested snugly against his throat. He had worn through his normal shoes with his constant walking and his feet ached with the constriction of having to always wear his flamenco shoes. He didn't pay any attention to who had come in until, completely uninvited, he approached him.

'Hey, I remember you! You're the one who ate the orange!' the visitor declared with excitement. Lovino looked up angrily at the man. With a sinking heart, he took in the watermelon-coloured eyes and recognised him instantly as the annoying guy who'd goaded him into doing something so stupid. He didn't regret it at all – his pride had been at stake, after all. But he'd still hoped never to see the man again.

'Your point is?' he snapped, wondering why the man had to _smile _all the time. It wasn't healthy. It was, he thought, almost unnatural.

'Umm… I just thought I should say hi. I never got your name – I'm Antonio.' he said this shyly, his grin a little less wide, and… Well, Lovino didn't exactly feel bad about being rude, but he wasn't proud of upsetting him either. But he didn't like him, no way.

'Lovino. Not that it matters,' he replied sourly. Antonio looked taken aback, and something close to recognition passed across his face.

'I thought so!' he declared, then immediately looked chastened.

'Thought what?'

'Oh, nothing. Just, you kind of looked like a Lovino. And I already guessed you were Italian from the accent… Hey are those flamenco shoes?' Lovino crossed his ankles defensively.

'Yeah. I dance. And pretty well too, before you ask.'

'Really? That's cool.' He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur and leaned in far closer than Lovino would have liked. 'You know, a lot of people think flamenco's easy. Really, it takes a special talent to get it right.' There was a faint scent of orange zest on his skin. Lovino blushed and shifted slightly in his chair.

'Personal space, jerk!' he hissed, not wanting to create a scene. Apparently oblivious to his discomfort, Antonio shrugged, that idiotic smile still on his face, and with a cheery wave headed off to look at the books.

'Stupid Spanish jerk,' Lovino muttered to himself, hunching over in his chair like a superannuated miser as he continued to examine the pitiful contents of his bank account. Clearly he'd tied his scarf too tightly because now he was hot and the blush in his cheeks refused to die. It wasn't like that stupid Antonio dude was the best-looking man he'd seen in a while, no way. Stupid unpredictable weather, he thought, removing his scarf entirely. Oh, why did it have to be so _hot_?

For some reason, he found himself unable to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing and it was an hour before he finished. As he was waiting for the computer to close down, Antonio came by, several romance novels and a history of guitar music tucked under his arm. In his free hand he carried a book which he set down on the table beside Lovino.

'Enjoy,' he whispered teasingly, before going out without a further word. Lovino looked down at the volume on the table, decoding the title with great effort: _On the Cultivation and Uses of Seville Oranges_. Huh. Well, obviously he found a smile rising to his face because he had finally finished with his work. There was absolutely no other reason, none, he told himself defiantly.

….

'What the hell is that?' Arthur demanded, looking at the box containing a TV Francis had proudly carried in like the head of one of his enemies. Francis just laughed.

'Read the side. I find that what's written on a box can be very enlightening when wondering what's inside.' Arthur heaved a frustrated sigh.

'I have, and you know exactly what I mean. And I suppose you'll want us all to chip in for it, too.' At the mention of money, Lovino's interest was piqued and he looked up from his flamenco magazine.

'Whatever it is, I'm not paying!' he yelled irascibly. Arthur grinned triumphantly.

'See, frog? No one else is contributing.' Francis looked genuinely hurt.

'I wasn't asking you to. This is a gift. I won it in a raffle. Now, shall we see what's on?'

Lovino didn't have the faintest interest in the TV and turned irritably away, bent over his magazine in an exaggerated parody of concentration as he tried unsuccessfully to blot out the inane, excited babble of the others' voices as they channel-surfed – all Arthur's hostility had evaporated upon finding out that you could get BBC in Spain. Annoyingly brief snatches of music, dialogue and advertising invaded his private sphere. And then…

'I'm so excited about my new exhibition!' No. No, it couldn't be. But that voice, high-pitched and perpetually happy… it couldn't be anyone else. Lovino whipped around, to be confronted with his worst nightmare: his brother being interviewed on screen. He, Giulio and Ludwig were standing in the entrance hall to some prestigious gallery or another, a constellation of camera flashes a constant accompaniment. Ludwig was shyly holding onto Feliciano's hand, a faint blush on his cheeks. Lovino wanted to strangle him with his deliberately and uncharacteristically informal scarf. That stupid German had no right to touch his baby brother, he thought sourly.

'So talented, that boy,' Arthur commented, in the carefully casual way of someone trying to hide their jealousy. 'And only seventeen,' he added, envy beginning to poison his speech.

'Sixteen, actually. His birthday's on March 17th.' The words were out before Lovino could stop himself. But he would never forget Feliciano's birthday, never. The two were born on the same day, after all, just two years apart. Arthur gave him a quizzical look.

'How on earth do you know that?' Damn, Lovino thought as he desperately tried to backpedal.

'He's famous in Italy. Yeah. A national hero. A statue of him in every town.'

'Right. He looks a bit like you actually,' Lovino felt his heart begin to pound. He peered with false nonchalance at the TV screen, pretending to consider.

'No way. He doesn't look like me,' he declared with great certainty. 'And if he does, it's a coincidence.' He finished defensively and conclusively. Arthur shrugged, a slightly sceptical expression on his face.

'Alright then. Just a thought.'

Grateful that the excruciating conversation was over, he tried to focus on his magazine once more but it was a futile effort. He felt weirdly vulnerable as he turned the pages, his mind buzzing with unwanted thoughts. He couldn't believe that, having come all the way to Spain to escape his family, they had made an appearance in the very room where he was living. That couldn't happen. He couldn't be reduced to being his brother's brother again, not after all this time. He had seven weeks left to prove that he could be someone in his own right. Somehow, he vowed silently, he would do it.

…

Seven weeks. Forty-nine days. A little longer than your average school summer holiday. And here he was, wasting one of these precious days working in a bar, washing up the glasses and seeing his own morose face in them. He took a strange and savage pleasure in eradicating the images with a swipe of the soaped cloth. His eyes were heavy with tiredness, his hands red as a Victorian washerwoman's, the skin cracked and sore from their constant steeping in hot water. His feet ached terribly in his stupid, high-heeled, impractical shoes. And he couldn't stop thinking about that stupid Spaniard. Of course, he was mostly thinking about how fervently he hoped he'd never see him again. Because it wasn't like he wanted to see him or anything. His mind wandered and he found himself thinking about his pitiful romantic history. He'd never had a proper boyfriend but… He cringed as the memory flooded back… Ludwig's _brother_, horribly drunk at his eighteenth birthday party and attempting to flirt with him. He'd only found out later, from Feliciano via Ludwig, that Gilbert had had a crush on him for three years. Admittedly, he'd felt a tiny bit bad for refusing so vociferously, but it wasn't like he was really that bothered. But maybe, if he could find someone who didn't drive him to murder, it would be nice to have a little romance once in a while. Deep down, he was jealous of how much in love Ludwig and Feliciano were – he had a suspicion that Giulio had already written the wedding invitations. But he wasn't desperate, and he certainly wouldn't settle for second best – second best, in this case, being any sort of Spanish idiot.

'Hey, it's Lovino! The man who eats Seville oranges for fun!' It was only through incredible force of will that Lovino managed to restrain himself from throwing the nearest sharp object at Antonio, who had just come in with his guitar and was already making his presence felt. Instead, he decided that stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the man. 'Lovino! Lovino the Italian flamenco dancer!' He was having none of it. How the hell could Antonio recognise him from behind anyway? 'Loviiiiiii!' That last one was the last straw, and he turned to face the obnoxious intruder.

'Who said we were on nickname terms, jerk?' he snapped, clenching his fists threateningly, horribly aware that they had an audience, namely every single person in the bar, although most of them were too drunk or absorbed in their own conversations to care.

'I think 'jerk' kind of counts as a nickname,' Antonio replied good-naturedly, an amused smile playing on his lips.

'Are you even going to order or are you just planning on sitting here and wasting oxygen? And how did you even recognise me?' Antonio laughed.

'I saw your sticky-out curl thing. It's visible from behind, you know.' Lovino blushed and tried to flatten the unruly strand, suddenly self-conscious. 'Don't. It looks nice. And… You say you're a dancer.' A little flustered by the compliment, Lovino drew himself up to his full height and tried to look defiant.

'Yeah, I am. Why does it even bother you?'

'I have some friends in that area. If you can show me your dancing, it might be good enough for me to pull a few strings.' Lovino felt a tiny smile beginning at the corner of his mouth.

'Prepare to have your tiny jerky mind blown,' he said.

…..

It was so good to have an audience again, Lovino thought as he twirled and stamped to the plangent melody of Antonio's guitar. The tune sounded familiar somehow but he didn't have time to think about it as he moved. He'd managed to beg his way off work early once Arthur had elicited a promise from him that he'd make all the time up later. Antonio had led him to a small square, a little like the one where they'd first met, and there he'd begun to dance. He took a deep breath, the sterile, wintry night air filling his lungs and helping to cool the frantic heat welling up in him as the music sped up, becoming more full-bodied and intense. He felt as though he was no longer part of his body but merely inhabiting it. He felt like he was controlling it from elsewhere, that these rapid yet elegant movements were being made by someone else. And when he was dancing, he was happy. The music stopped.

'Why did you stop?' he demanded, his voice sharp although his mind was slow, the tune still slowly cascading through his mind. Antonio carefully put the guitar down.

'Your solo dancing is excellent but I need to judge the way you dance with a partner. Have you ever done it before?' Hmm. He'd only ever danced with Natalya, having plied her with a new pair of ballet shoes, and those untalented girls at the public event. Truthfully, his paired dancing was pretty substandard. But he wasn't going to say that.

'Yes, with… people.' He deliberately didn't say 'girls'. He didn't want Antonio getting the wrong idea about him – no, not like _that_, just that it was better to have the facts straight. 'But there's no one else around.' Antonio stood up from the bench where he had stationed himself, his eternal smile widening a little.

'Isn't there?' Lovino took a step back.

'Oh no. Oh _hell_ no. Not on your life. Jerk.'

'Do you want a job or not?' Antonio's voice contained an unexpected note of anger. Seeing that he couldn't afford to miss his chance, Lovino reluctantly acquiesced.

'Ok then.'

Well. Antonio was certainly a good dancer. He led Lovino effortlessly around the dark, abandoned square. In the silence, and silvered by the night, they looked like a pair of lovers in an ancient silent film. Lovino tried to concentrate on following the steps, not daring to look Antonio in the face, nor to allow himself to feel the pressure where one of the guitarist's hands clasped his and the other rested against his back. The night felt timeless. In the absence of streetlights, pop music and other people, they could just as easily have been a century ago. A thought came to him. This was all very well but just circulating like a waltzing couple was a little…sedate, wasn't it? He should show off, he realised, do something out of the ordinary. One of those fancy spins, perhaps. Emboldened by his idea, intoxicated by the joy of dance, he attempted to execute a complicated movement and…

down…

he…

fell…

God, it hurt so much. He lay sprawled out on the ground, a little stunned. His left foot was absolutely killing him. He made some attempt to sit up, but the fresh wave of pain defeated him and he collapsed into an untidy heap once more. Antonio rushed over.

'Lovino, what's wrong? Where are you hurt?' He couldn't possibly let on that anything was the matter, not if he wanted Antonio to use his contacts and secure him some sort of job.

'I'm fine,' he defiantly insisted. Antonio sighed as though dealing with a stubborn child.

'Lovino, you're not fine,' he said patiently. 'You can't even stand up. Now, where's the pain?'

'Left foot,' he admitted through gritted teeth. Without asking permission – which was just as well because he'd never have got it – Antonio began to unlace his shoe, then pulled it off and began to feel for damage.

'Aaaaaaah! There… Just… There.' Antonio had found the source of the pain. Lovino bit his lip and tried to stop tears from spilling out as the probing continued.

'I think it might be broken,' Antonio said, in the tone of someone delivering terrible news. Lovino shook his head, refusing to believe it.

'No way. It's just a bit bashed. Just give me a minute and I'll be fine.' Antonio ignored the pathetic defence and pulled a scarf from his pocket, wrapping it around Lovino's injured foot. His breath caught in his throat as he spotted its distinctive decoration. That tomato pattern… He'd seen it before. But it couldn't be him. Just my luck, Lovino thought, the one time I get a chance to impress someone and I end up falling over.

'We should still go and get it looked at. It's only ten o'clock. A&E shouldn't be too crowded.'

With much awkward manoeuvring, they managed together to get Lovino to his feet and, with Antonio supporting the fallen dancer with one arm and carrying his guitar slung over his shoulder, they left the square. It no longer gleamed silver. To Lovino, the blackness between the cobblestones looked like rivulets of blood.

….

Antonio had been wrong in his prediction and they ended up waiting in A&E for three hours. It was torture for Lovino. The pain would dull, then the most microscopic movement of his foot would cause it to return again in a great, crashing wave. The whole place was full of misery: children with ear infections, people who'd fallen off ladders, drunk clubbers a little the worse for wear. Antonio kept up a constant barrage of stupid jokes after he'd been ordered not to play his guitar in the waiting room and Lovino found that the only thing keeping him awake was the pure agony coursing through his body. He wished with every fibre of his being that he could be somewhere else.

Eventually, they were called through, Antonio refusing to be parted from his guitar and bringing it into the cramped consultation room with him. Lovino let himself be examined once more, though he was glad that it was by a real doctor this time, and kept up a constant prayer in his mind that nothing bad had happened, although the swelling and patchwork of red and black bruises were beginning to tell their own story. Once he had finished the inspection, the mild-mannered Japanese doctor looked from one of them to the other.

'What relation are you two to each other?'

'He's my friend,' said Antonio.

'I don't know him,' said Lovino. 'And just tell me: is my foot actually broken or what?'

'I'm afraid so, Mr Vargas. Fortunately, it's only a small fracture so it won't need a cast, but we'll give you a crutch. And you must refrain from all strenuous exercise – long walks, running and so on – for the next three months.' Lovino felt his heart sink.

'What about dancing?' The doctor gave him a strange look.

'Yes, of course dancing comes under strenuous exercise.' Lovino was getting desperate.

'What about seven weeks? Would seven weeks be ok?'

'Absolutely not! If you don't observe the three-month period, you could cause permanent damage to your foot. You'd never dance again.'

Lovino took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. He was dimly aware of Antonio beside him, prodding him in the ribs.

'Lovi? Lovi! Why is it so important? What's happening in seven weeks?' He couldn't tell him. But three months! He might as well just order his ticket back to Italy right now. His vision was clouding and nothing could clear it. Nausea was rising in the back of his throat. No chance of achieving his dreams now, none.

It was with great relief that he found himself sinking into a deep, oblivious faint.

…

**Author's Note: Damn, has it really been so long since the last update!? I am legitimately sorry, although – believe it or not – I still have tests at school so I've been revising an awful lot – that and I've been having the worst writers' block ever! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thanks for all the reviews on the last one.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Sorry about the long wait – I've been doing two very stressful controlled assessments and I had to redo my physics test because I failed and… Yeah, I've had a lot going on. And… OMFG is that 30 follows? Eep! Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter! (Warning: minor character death.)**

'So what was all that about?' asked Antonio with a rare and slight frown on his face as he and Lovino left the hospital. Lovino pretended not to understand.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he muttered, looking down at the ground as he focused on navigating with his new and unfamiliar crutch. Already, its semi-musical clicking was causing him untold irritation.

'Oh, just the fact that you actually _passed out_ when the doctor said you wouldn't be able to dance in seven weeks.' His tone softened. 'Seriously, though, what's the deal? Have you entered some competition or something?' Lovino wordlessly shook his head, then, distracted by his struggle to form a response, tripped and hit his newly-dressed foot. A bolt of pain tore all the way up to his knee and he hissed out in agony.

'God! Can't those doctors do _anything _right?' he snapped furiously, just about keeping his balance. Antonio patted him on the shoulder in a clumsy gesture of comfort.

'It has to hurt a little bit before it gets better.' he reassured him.

'Don't patronise me jerk! I'm not five years old,' Antonio smiled and withdrew a few notes from his pocket.

'I wouldn't take you for a drink if you were.'

…..

There were three reasons why Lovino didn't want to go home that night. The first was that it was coming up for four in the morning and Arthur would probably throw something at him for waking him up by coming home so late. The second was that, once Arthur had woken up, he would see the injury he had sustained and probably laugh at him for it. The third… Well, it wasn't important. But it most definitely did not concern the Spanish guitarist currently sitting next to him at a bar and sipping his third glass of tomato juice while Lovino protectively cradled the Italian wine he hadn't tasted in so long. Having drained the last fragrant drops, he ordered another.

'How many is that now? Four?' Antonio asked with an air of slight concern.

'It stops the pain,' Lovino mumbled in reply, although he himself was aware of the fact that his voice was a little less clear and his reactions a little less prompt than usual.

'Alcohol is not a good anaesthetic,' Antonio chided him gently. 'It thins the blood.'

'How d'you know that?' Lovino demanded, scrutinising him. Antonio seemed to lose his composure slightly and his easy pose stiffened almost imperceptibly.

'Heard it on the grapevine – no, the tomato vine!'

'Whatever.'

In any event, they were thrown out a few minutes later when closing time arrived. It had been Lovino's intention to part with Antonio there and then and make his way home alone but the gallant Spaniard insisted on being chivalrous once more and escorting him there. As they walked, Lovino found that the wine had put him in a marginally better mood than usual and he and Antonio kept up a pleasant conversation.

'D'you want your tomato scarf back?' he asked, almost teasingly. Antonio shook his head.

'No, I have others. You can keep it.' Lovino giggled, completely uninhibited for once.

'You know what I think you are?'

'A jerk?' Antonio guessed patiently.

'Yeah, obviously. But I _also _think you're that Guitar King dude. _He _has a tomato scarf just like yours and he plays the guitar and he…'

'And _I _think you've had a little too much fun this evening,' Antonio replied, cutting him off, a slight firmness having come into his voice, a slight lessening of his natural humour. Concerned by this sudden change in mood, Lovino stole a glance at him but the pleasant, permanent half-smile was back in place, masking whatever thoughts he was having.

They continued on in silence. As Lovino breathed the purifying night air, he felt the stuffy clouds in his brain begin to dissipate and his mind became clearer. Already, he was hating having to rely on the crutch. It slowed him down immensely and its sound echoed off the sleeping buildings, announcing him to anyone still awake at such an hour. Beside him, Antonio adjusted the strap of his guitar and hummed a few notes of what he'd been playing earlier before Lovino's unfortunate tumble. Bleakly, Lovino wondered what Antonio thought of him now that he'd been so humiliated. Of course, he didn't really care. But it was still annoying to think that he'd shown himself up like that. Still, at least he was nearly home. They turned onto the narrow street where he was staying. He heard Antonio give a little noise of horror.

'Lovi, you live _here_?' he asked incredulously, looking around the tightly-packed buildings with their barred windows and warped and blistered doors. Lovino looked at the ground, embarrassed. He knew that the area wasn't exactly rich but Antonio was reacting like it was some sort of slum.

'Gotta live somewhere,'

'Yes but…' Antonio scrutinised the sign by the door. 'You don't have your own flat. You don't even have your own _room_.' He shook his head in disbelief. Lovino, with as much dignity as he could manage when leaning on a crutch, faced up to him.

'Well what are you going to do about it? Invite me to move in with you? Lend me ten thousand so I can rent somewhere? Don't complain about things if you don't know how to fix them. Besides, I like living here. Jerk.' He felt horribly self-conscious. Stupid, he berated himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should never have let anyone, least of all Antonio, break through his reserve. He should never have let himself enjoy his company. Because what good ever came of doing such things? All he'd got for it was a broken foot and a reminder that he was living in penury. Really, he should have learnt by now that the only way to avoid disillusionment was never to trust in illusions.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean…' Antonio replied, his voice sincere though Lovino was deaf to any apologies.

'I don't care,'

'Lovi, please…'

'I _never _said you could call me that,' he hissed through clenched teeth. 'So just leave me alone.' He pulled the tomato scarf out of his pocket and tossed it onto the pavement like a duelling glove. 'And you can keep this. And I really, really don't care if you're the _amazing _'Guitar King' or not.' The scarf lay there between them, a witness and a reproach. Neither one of them dared to submit, to bend and pick it up. Lovino turned and limped to the door, forcing his key in with undue force and stumbling in his haste to be away from the world. He glimpsed Antonio's bewildered face just before he slammed the door, and heard his parting words.

'I _am _sorry, Lovi. And maybe you will be too, one day.'

…

Lovino was, by disposition, a proud person. He valued his independence highly and hated to be seen to rely on anyone or anything. Which was why his current affliction was so intolerable to him. He had now been using the crutch for a week, but his hatred for the object was yet to diminish. Every day when he went out, people would give him pitying or inquisitive glances, let him cross the road ahead of them, open doors for him… It was awful, and most painfully undignified. When Arthur had first found out about his injury, he had merely raised a heavy eyebrow and muttered 'how great the mighty fallen,' under his breath. Francis had been a little kinder and offered to let him choose the channel on the TV, a suggestion which was met with scorn.

Lovino could keenly feel the sands of time running out for him and now that he was certain he wouldn't have a job as a dancer within the time limit, some of the urgency had left him. Instead, he now viewed his remaining six weeks as an interlude, a calm place where he could be his own master before he was summoned back to Italy. He was determined not to go quietly. It was so unfair, he kept thinking to himself. Why was it that Feliciano was the one marked out to have a great gift? Why him, the angelic little boy who always shared his toys while Lovino snatched his own away and spat on the other children? He felt like the archetypal jealous brother, the bitter older one sequestered in his corner, supplanted by the glowing, beautiful boy whom everyone loved, the sour Cain to Feliciano's Abel. Much as he cared for Feliciano, he wasn't sure if his disappointed heart would be able to cope with seeing him again.

And there was one other thing. All that week, he had – discreetly of course – been looking out for Antonio. Not for any particular reason, naturally, but simply because it would have been nice to see a familiar face. Whenever someone new came into the bar, he felt a little lift in his chest, only for it to be crushed once the newcomer revealed himself to be yet another drunkard looking to be lost in mediocre beer and crude conversation. He didn't understand this irrational cycle of hope and disappointment, and he certainly didn't get any pleasure from imagining meetings with Antonio. In fact, it wasn't like he imagined such meetings at all – and why would he? Why would he feel anything for an annoying jerk with a guitar, a tomato obsession and eternal smile? He was sad about leaving Seville because it would mean an end to his freedom, not because he had anyone to miss.

It was with these thoughts running through his mind that he went out in the morning, a scarf tight around his neck against the cold and his crutch – with a sock pulled over it to muffle the noise – his constant burden. There was a chance of rain later, something he hated since it entailed hanging around in a shop or doorway until it was all over.

'Hey! Lovino!' He turned around to face the source of the noise, knowing before he even saw him that it was Antonio. The guitarist jogged a couple of metres to catch up with him and Lovino took the opportunity to study his features. His movements were just as sprightly as ever, but his grin was a little less wide and maybe even a touch… uncertain.

'Hey,' Lovino replied, unaccountably self-conscious.

'You didn't call me 'jerk' this time!' Antonio exclaimed with mock surprise. His eyes travelled down to Lovino's foot. 'How is it? It was the metatarsal you broke, wasn't it?'

'The what?' Was this the Spanish jerk's idea of a joke? Making him feel bad about his poor education?

'Oh… Just a bone in the foot.' Antonio rubbed the back of his neck, somewhat evasive.

'Well, just say 'bone', then. We didn't all go to medical school, you know. And since you know so much about feet, do I _really _have to go three months without dancing?' he demanded. Antonio nodded ruefully.

'Yeah, I'm afraid you do,' At the sight of Lovino's despairing expression, he hastily added, 'but as soon as three months is up, you can start looking for dancing jobs again.'

'I only have six weeks,' Lovino mumbled in surly reply, tapping his crutch against the ground in a gesture of frustration.

'Oh, _that_,' Antonio said, seeming to remember their previous exchange. 'Yeah, um, why do you have such little time?'

'I just do. But it doesn't matter anymore,'

'You can tell me,'

'No, I can't. So stop acting like you're my best friend or something, because you're really not,' He turned and made his retreat, struggling to stop himself from becoming emotional. He was going slowly enough for Antonio to catch up to him, but he wasn't followed. Alone again. Just as he'd always wanted. So why did he feel so sad about it? Why did he feel like he'd made some rash mistake? He felt like the bitter cripple in some medieval legend, the one who met a radiant prince on the road and showed him disdain. Every step he took felt heavy, for each one took him further away from Antonio – Antonio with his strangely good medical knowledge, the guitar that seemed part of his soul, and the secret that he was trying to hide, the secret that he was the Guitar King. And he stood there, watching Lovino disappear and wondering, in his unworldly way, what he'd done wrong.

….

Ring… Ring… Lovino tried to block out the irritating sound of his phone. This was the third time it had rung within the space of half an hour and he was determined to steadfastly ignore. He was in absolutely no doubt that it was Giulio on the other end and he knew how a conversation between them would play out. Giulio would jovially ask how he was getting on, he would reply with 'fine'. He would then be asked whether he had found a dancing job, to which he would be forced to say he hadn't. Then would come the truth about his injury, the request for more time and then the denial of his request. The pain was bad and had kept him up most of the previous night and now he was really far too tired to even form a coherent sentence, let alone have and win an argument. He tried to focus on mechanically cleaning the glasses as the vibrations finally stopped, only to start up again a second later.

'It's probably quite important,' Arthur remarked casually, 'or else they wouldn't have called so many times,' Lovino shook his head.

'It'll just be my stupid granddad,' he replied dismissively. Nonetheless, he did pull the phone out of his pocket, just to confirm his suspicions. To his surprise, it was an unknown number. 'Ok, so maybe I should answer it,' he admitted, going out to the alley to take the call, just as he had on his first night of work.

'Are you Lovino Vargas?' The voice was female, unfamiliar.

'Yes, I am,' he responded cautiously, a strange sense of foreboding sinking in his chest.

'And are you the grandson of Giulio Vargas?' He felt his heart speed up.

'Yes, I am,' he repeated. He heard the long, white-noise rush of a sigh, then:

'Mr Vargas, I am truly sorry to inform you that your grandfather died a few hours ago.' Lovino felt a violent wave of nausea and pressed a hand against the wall to prevent himself from collapsing.

'I… Are you sure? I… Is my brother alright?' Oh God, he thought, Feliciano. In all his sweetness and innocence, how would his brother cope?

'Your brother is at the house of the…' a silence and the rustling of paper '… Beilschmidt family. Are they friends of yours?'

'Y-Yes, they are. I… I don't live in Italy anymore… Umm… When do I need to be there?' The noise from the bar spilled out from inside and lapped around him. He felt like a drowned man, heedless of the roiling waves.

'As soon as possible. If you can get a flight tomorrow, that's best.' The voice was sympathetic but businesslike, giving Lovino the impression that the speaker dealt with this sort of news routinely.

'Ok, I'll… I'll be there as soon as possible. And tell my brother that I'll see him soon.'

His grandfather was dead. Dead, dead, dead. Lovino forced his mind around the frightening and unfamiliar concept. The man who'd pushed him on swings, read him bedtime stories, argued with him over school reports and dance lessons and staying out late. A wave of irrational anger surged up in him. What right did Giulio have to die, just now when Lovino needed him most? And he realised now that he needed him, that he'd been foolish. Already, even now as he stood in the alley, the last four months felt like a dream. He'd been an impetuous young man, he saw that now. He'd been reckless and got nothing to show for it but a handful of unexciting memories… That, and a man he'd been too stupid, too stubborn and too scared to admit that he loved. Too late to tell Antonio he loved him. More pertinently, too late to tell Giulio he loved him. And wasn't that always how things went for Lovino? Scared to love, and scared to let himself be loved.


	6. On One Condition

'_Lovino, I know you're not religious, but even you must know the story of the Prodigal Son.'_

Oh, Lovino knew it all right. He knew it, and he remembered with shame his arrogant response to Giulio. But now he so badly wanted to beg his forgiveness, to show him that his dreams were something genuine, not just an exercise in youthful narcissism and irrationality. Now, when he returned home, Giulio would not be standing outside to welcome him back to the fold. No, he would be lying cold and pristine in his coffin somewhere, untroubled by Latin translations and errant grandsons. It was too late to say anything, too late to make it better, too late to do anything but put on a suit and commit Giulio to the ground.

Lovino sipped his unappealing coffee and watched Rome loom larger through the plane window. He had always expected to return in triumph, like a victorious Roman general; instead, he was coming in bowed and defeated like a captured slave, foreign blood and fury boiling in his veins. He was consumed by rare and uncomfortable guilt at the way he had disregarded Giulio's advice, and, though it was galling for him to admit that he was wrong, he knew that he was. However, he knew that even if Giulio was still around, he would never have said these things aloud. It just wasn't in his nature. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to landing. Twenty minutes until he saw Feliciano for the first time in four and a half months.

But every mile closer to Rome was a mile further from Seville, and by extension from Antonio. It was ridiculous, really, to miss him, Lovino thought. They hardly knew each other. He didn't know his email address or phone number or even his surname. And he was sure that Antonio would forget him within a short while – and wasn't that always what he'd wanted? Besides, he was always pushing people away, no matter what he felt for them – be it friendship, admiration or… love. He shook his head, a small gesture for himself alone. He would never see Antonio again, and he shouldn't want to. As soon as this uncomfortable business of the funeral and his three-month period of no dancing was over, he would return to his search for success, a single-minded career man with no time for attractive Spanish guitarists. Absolutely none.

…

Lovino saw Feliciano almost as soon as he came through arrivals, feeling the little jolt that came from recognising a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. He registered with mounting shame how tired and miserable his brother looked and the sad, subdued smile that rose to Feliciano's lips on seeing him almost broke his heart. He crossed the remaining few yards between them as quickly as that vile misshapen limb, his crutch, would allow him. All his cold desperation to be away from his family that had driven him for so long disintegrated as soon as he was in front of Feliciano. Hugging him tighter than he ever had, he whispered,

'I'm so, so sorry,'

Feliciano sniffed, beginning to cry. 'It's ok, Lovi. You're here now,'

Lovino shook his head fiercely, tears of his own starting in his eyes. 'I know but… I should have been here before. I should have been here when… it happened.'

'There wasn't any warning. It just… He… It was sudden. You couldn't have known.'

Lovino released his brother from his embrace and studied him for a moment. Feliciano seemed to have a new sort of maturity to him, an impression of adulthood that had been completely absent in the cheerful, flighty, impractical boy he'd left behind him. Death, Lovino realised, had forced him to step up to the mark and grow up – at least superficially.

'Come on,' he said at length. 'We're both tired. We should go.'

At that moment, Feliciano seemed to notice his crutch for the first time. 'Oh, Lovi! What happened?'

He shrugged. 'I broke my foot. It doesn't matter now.'

…

The funeral was held a week after Lovino's arrival, on a day when the clouds hung low and rain-filled but not quite ready to release their load. He stood in his childhood bedroom, untouched from when he had left it, and looked at himself in the mirror. The suit he'd hired at the last minute was too tight, even for someone as lithe as a dancer, and his tie rested uncomfortably against his throat. He was numb. Somewhere in his mind, he was going through the necessary motions of bereavement, but the more conscious part of him was anaesthetised, artificially calm as he combed his hair down flat and tried to make his naturally truculent expression a little more mournful. Why couldn't he feel anything? He had always been so passionate, unable to simply shrug things off. Why now, when he so desperately wanted to prove to himself that he was capable of remorse, was he suddenly so unfeeling? He wasn't normally much given to regret but now he was consumed by it. He'd grown up not caring about his mistakes or pretending that he made none at all. This idea of being unable to rectify something was a new and awful one.

'_I __am__ sorry, Lovi. And maybe you will be too, one day.' _ And he was. Sorry for the way he'd treated Giulio, and Antonio, and Feliciano, and everyone who'd ever had the misfortune to know him.

At the service, sadness mingled uneasily with the knowledge that the upbeat Giulio would have preferred an occasion of happy memories. As he waited outside for it to begin, Lovino noticed, and tried to avoid, all the people who were in some way linked to his old life.

Elizaveta was the first to approach him. She was no different from the last time he'd seen her, as elegant as always in a sober yet pretty dress. A single teardrop of black jet glittered in the hollow of her throat.

'It's such a shame. He was a wonderful man,' she said sincerely. 'And he always did support you.' She appraised him in a faintly maternal way. 'But I see you've hurt yourself. How did it happen?'

'I got in a fight,' he lied, unwilling to discuss his non-existent career.

'Looks like you lost,' she remarked with a trace of amusement.

'You should have seen the other guy.'

She smiled. 'You always were a stubborn one.'

'… And finally, thank you for buying all my paints and canvases and cheering me up when I wanted to stop trying. You showed me how important it was to work hard. I love you.' Feliciano wiped his eyes, something that failed to stop his tears. He was in pieces after delivering a heartfelt speech, thanking Giulio for all he'd done raising him and Lovino. Lovino had already made his speech, a shorter and less moving affair. He'd never been good at putting emotions into words. Part of him had despaired at his inability to cry at his own grandfather's funeral but the another part of him had told him that, with the disgraceful way he'd acted, there was no way he had any right to cry now, when it was all over.

He and Feliciano returned to their seats and sat down. Lovino looked around the church, at the painted Renaissance angels with their lead-white faces and patient, eternal near-smiles as they observed the folly of mankind with disaffection. He wondered if they were wearing similar expressions while looking down on him. On one wall, the fresco had faded almost completely, only the barest outlines remaining. He felt similarly diluted, lamed and humbled and, in the worst possible circumstances, brought home from where he wanted to be. At the front of the church, Giulio's great friend, the expert on Ancient Greece, Professor Herakles Karpusi, had taken to the podium. Feliciano was beginning to sniffle again and it was not lost on Lovino that he reached for Ludwig's hand rather than his. He looked at his own hand, wondering when he had been supplanted, then stuffed it angrily into his jacket pocket so that its emptiness and uselessness would not be so glaring. This done, he turned slightly and resumed staring at the painting, trying to fill in the details in his mind.

…

Afterwards, when the unpleasant business of the mortal remains had been dealt with, the prayers offered up, the soul sufficiently reposed, Lovino decided to confront Ludwig. Seeing that Feliciano had left his side for a moment, Lovino took his chance.

'You shouldn't be here,' he said archly.

Ludwig stiffened a little, pugnacious. Lovino belatedly remembered that he was planning to join the army and could probably kill him with his bare hands if the need arose. 'And why not?'

'This is a family event. You're not family,'

Ludwig made a sweeping gesture, encompassing everyone in the room. 'So you're related to all the people here except me?'

Lovino's scowl darkened. 'Don't play dumb, potato lover. You're stealing my brother. It's supposed to be me comforting him, not you,'

'I've been there for him more than you have. You wouldn't believe how upset he got on the nights when you didn't call home. He missed you so much and now you're just being selfish. He couldn't spend all those months just waiting for you. And if you're that worried about comforting him, go and do it. He's on his own now.' This said, Ludwig turned and moved off, engaging a group of local acquaintances in conversation. Lovino stood rudderless in the centre of the room, Ludwig's words hammering their message in his mind. Everything anyone said to him seemed to end up some portentous statement, something to sorrow over later when the message had become far too clear. But Ludwig had spoken the truth. In seeking to distance himself from his family, Lovino had distanced himself from the one person in the world who still had any sort of connection to him.

…

'… To my grandson Feliciano, I bequeath all the Roman artefacts and books that gave him such joy as a child.'

Feliciano smiled broadly on hearing the news. Lovino merely felt himself becoming progressively more nervous as he waited to hear what he had got. It was the morning after the funeral and the reading of the will, when everyone's real motives for attending would soon become apparent.

'To my dear friend Herakles Karpusi I bequeath my Apollo statue, in memory of our younger days. And to my other grandson Lovino, I bequeath my house.'

Lovino almost punched the air. Now he could sell the house and return to Seville with the profits! The lawyer gave a slight frown on seeing his unseemly grin, then continued reading.

'However, there is an addendum. In light of Lovino's recent experiences, he will receive his inheritance only upon completing a university degree.'

No. No, that couldn't be right. It wasn't _fair_. What kind of dirty trick was that? Furious, he surged to his feet, feeling a stab of pain in his injured one as he did so, and stormed out of the room.

'Lovi, please…' he heard Feliciano call out, a sound he registered dimly, through the haze of his anger. He didn't care about the impression he was making. After all, he never had.

Mind still buzzing with the shock of the news, he didn't know where he was going until he found himself in the garden where he had danced so often in the summers of his childhood. Now that it was winter, the trees were leafless and the grass damp, a damaged memory of its former glory. He sat down on the small bench that Giulio had helped Feliciano to paint one August when he'd been very young. Alone with his thoughts, he felt frustrated tears stinging in his eyes. Nothing ever seemed to go right for him, nothing. He wished with all his heart that he could be back in Spain, even if it meant washing glasses every night and sharing a room. Because Spain was where Antonio was. And it was becoming inexorably clear to Lovino that Spain was where he'd left his heart. He couldn't believe that it would now be three years until he had another chance. He'd be twenty-one then, at an age when dancers should be well-established, not just setting out. He put his head in his hands in despair. Why did he have to have all the bad luck?

At the sound of the back door opening, he turned sharply, not quite sure who he'd see there. With some surprise, he saw that it was Herakles, someone to whom he'd given little thought since their perfunctory greetings at the funeral.

'I want to talk to you,' Herakles said, his slow voice not quite matching the words he said.

'Who says I want to talk to _you_?' Lovino sneered.

Uninvited, the Greek came over and sat beside him. 'Socrates was a great believer in talking. He thought the invention of writing was a terrible thing.'

'Do I look interested?'

Herakles sighed. 'Forgive me. I don't get much chance to discuss my work anymore. At home, it's just me and the cats. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about your education,'

'I don't care about that,' Lovino mulishly insisted.

'You clearly do – you just walked out of the reading of your grandfather's will on hearing that you'd have to get one. I have connections at the University of Naples. I can get you a place there,' He paused, fixing his gaze on the middle distance. 'I met your grandfather there, back in the fifties. He was excavating Pompeii – one of the first to do it properly, rather than just stealing the prettiest things. I was studying the dissemination of Greek culture in Rome. Together, we pretty much ran the Classics department. And he always woke me up in time for me to finish my essays. Giulio was a brilliant man, a true scholar and truer friend. You couldn't ask for better.'

Lovino had never heard any of this before and he realised, for the first time, that Giulio had had a life before becoming his grandfather, that a man of great and genuine intelligence hid beneath the easygoing exterior. No wonder he had been so upset by Lovino's aversion to studying.

'I guess he wanted me to do Latin or something. God, he raised us practically bilingual,'

Herakles shook his head. 'He didn't specify. He didn't want to control you, Lovino. He just wanted you to do well. Do you have any ideas of what to study? You've missed the first term but if you do some catch-up work over the Christmas holidays, I can probably slot you into whatever class you want.'

Lovino considered carefully. Nothing apart from dancing had ever held much interest for him. He and Feliciano had always been so single-minded with their respective talents. So what could he do? 'Sensible' things like business or maths were too boring. 'Transferable' subjects like history and literature wouldn't be any use where he was going. Just then, a thought struck him.

'If you study languages, you get a year abroad, don't you?'

'Yes, you do.'

Lovino felt his first smile in a long time spread across his lips. 'In that case,' he said triumphantly. 'I'll take Spanish.'

….

Unfortunately, the day held one more surprise for Lovino, and it was Herakles who came to impart the bad news.

'Lovino, you know that Feliciano is only sixteen,' he said in the hesitant way of someone about to break a heart.

Lovino scowled. 'Of course I know,'

Herakles sighed. 'Well, since he's still a minor and you're his only living relative, he'll have to come down to Naples with you.'

Lovino's mouth dropped open. 'What the hell? No way! Can't he live with Ludwig or something?'

Herakles shook his head. 'It's not appropriate for a couple of sixteen-year-olds. He'll only be with you for a year or so, anyway. I promised Giulio I'd help you both if anything happened, so I can get you a flat and deal with all the rent. And I'll always be there if you need it. I'll even give you one of my spare cats if you want company.'

At that moment, a horrible realisation came to Lovino. 'Wait… If we're going to Naples, he'll have to be away from Ludwig,' He sighed in despair. 'I'd best go and tell him.'

…..

As expected, Feliciano was distraught when Lovino told him the plan.

'But I won't see Ludi!' was his first reaction.

Lovino, heart a little hardened by his distance from Antonio, was disinclined to be sympathetic. 'It's not like you would have lasted or anything. You're only sixteen,'

Feliciano began to sob. 'I know we can email and everything… B-but it just w-won't be the s-same without him. Even though we're young, I want to be with him forever. Sometimes your first love is your true love.'

Lovino was silent for a moment, his mind on Antonio, the man he'd been stupid enough to fall for. He didn't want to miss him but he did, so badly. Feliciano seemed to pick up on his misery.

'Aw Lovi, what's wrong?' He paused for a moment, then, 'Did you meet someone in Spain?'

Lovino said nothing for a moment, then, defeated, he murmured. 'Yes, Feli. Yes, I met someone.'


	7. Napoli

Lovino watched Naples pass by through the dusty windows of the taxi as he waited to arrive at the new flat he would have to share with Feliciano. Beside him, his brother was eagerly taking in everything, occasionally making a few marks in his sketchpad with a light pencil. The city was chaotic, unplanned, sprawling over the hill country and spilling in a disorderly mess down to the curve of the bay. No two buildings were the same size or colour, everything rammed up together as if fighting for the choicest spots. Lovino hated it. In the bag at his feet were his brand-new Spanish textbooks, novels he was supposed to somehow struggle through and a couple of books on Spanish history and culture. He'd finally got rid of his crutch, but there hadn't been much time for dancing in the midst of all the frantic preparations to be made for the move.

The last few weeks had been far from easy. There had been the issues of inheritance and parcelling up the smaller bequests for people the brothers hadn't even met. There had been the misery of winter, a season of storms that flattened the old olive tree in the garden. It had felt significant somehow, as if all the life was going out of the place now that its owner was dead. Lovino and Feliciano had spent a subdued Christmas as guests of the Beilschmidt, where no one quite dared celebrate for fear of somehow disrespecting Giulio. The meal had been horribly tense, Feliciano barely letting go of Ludwig's arm for a second, Gilbert shooting Lovino unreadable looks across the table and the constant, sterile clinking of cutlery the whole time. It had been with some relief that Lovino had begun packing up his life, discarding old toys, books he hadn't opened since buying them and all his battered old pairs of dance shoes. It was cathartic, and he had felt some of the weight on him beginning to lift. Of course, the one weight that no amount of cleaning could alleviate, and that was the memory of Antonio. Lovino wished with all his heart that he hadn't been so damned arrogant, that he had admitted his feelings or at least given Antonio a chance to declare his. Too late now.

He looked away. Naples, that most passionate city, former capital of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies with its dissolute court, was teasing him. He had heard somewhere that Naples was a place to visit before dying. And, he thought, it might indeed be the death of him. Oh, Antonio…

"Lovi?" Feliciano tugged at his sleeve like a child.

"What?" he snapped, angry at having been brought out of his daydream.

"When would be a good time for Ludi to come and visit?"

Lovino sighed irritably. "We haven't even moved in yet and you're already thinking about that? Just forget about him already. You know how you are. You'll find a new 'muse' in about a week and it'll be like he never existed." In his mind's eye, Antonio's smile hovered like a teasing mirage, a Cheshire cat that was maddening in its unreality.

Feliciano's eyes shone with tears. "You can be very mean sometimes, Lovi." he said, as close to reproachfully as it was possible for him to get.

They spent the rest of the journey in silence.

…..

A month into his course, Lovino was already wishing he could just disappear off the face of the earth. He wasn't making friends – in fact, none of the people in his class liked him. He'd come a term later than everyone else, so it was too late for him to fit into any of the established groups. He wasn't nearly good enough at Spanish to follow the work properly, since he'd never progressed much beyond casual conversation in Seville. All the reading, the literature and the serious study was beyond him and he was used to having his essays marked as 'failed' or his writing practice described as 'totally incoherent'. His lecturers were uncharitable towards him, knowing that he owed his place to nepotism rather than merit, and they viewed it as a rather unfortunate throwback to the nineteenth century. The only time he found anything approaching pleasure was in the rare moments when he could slip into the dance studio and spend a few minutes lost in the glorious panacea that was music, letting all his frustration flow out in the smack of heel against floor and the surging, insistent rhythm of the music. But he could never dance without being reminded of a certain guitarist, of a certain night in a timeless Seville square, when for a moment he had been more than a boy with an attitude problem, when the music had lent him a sort of purity and nobility. All in all, he was unhappy.

Feliciano, on the other hand, was thriving, his natural optimism and likeability the exact opposite of Lovino's cynicism and prickliness. Despite not being an official student, he had been given free use of all the art studios and provided with all the materials he could ever wish for, and the university was thrilled to be associated with someone like him. Lovino often didn't emerge from the library until seven in the evening, a storm of unfamiliar words still battering his mind, but even then Feliciano would still be upstairs, cutting a lonely figure in the darkened art room as he devoted himself to whatever masterpiece he was currently focusing on. And, so far, there hadn't been a single evening where he hadn't called Ludwig, his high-pitched voice going on about the most inane – to Lovino's mind – subjects for up to an hour. Not that Lovino was jealous of such happiness and satisfaction, obviously.

After a few weeks of this misery, he came home one evening to find Feliciano sitting on the sofa, apparently waiting for him, doodling in his sketchpad. At the sound of Lovino's footsteps, he looked up.

"Oh, hey Lovi. I wanted to talk to you." he said brightly, his ever-present smile firmly in place.

Lovino was immediately suspicious. "You've gone and invited that German without telling me, haven't you?" he said threateningly, folding his arms.

Feliciano hurriedly shook his head. "No, no. Although I _do _miss him very much and…"

"Spit it out!" Lovino demanded, cutting through the babble.

"Ok. Well, you've been kind of sad recently and I don't know why. Is it because of that man you met in Spain?"

Lovino stiffened visibly. Feliciano hadn't raised the subject since that initial conversation and he had begun to hope that he might have got away with revealing his secret. "Why would I be bothered about him?"

Feliciano gestured to the empty spot on the sofa beside him and Lovino reluctantly took a seat. Their new kitten, a gift from Herakles, wandered in, and Feliciano picked her up and started stroking her, having apparently forgotten the conversation entirely. "Oh, hello Pomodoro," he said in a squeaky baby voice. "Who's a good kitty? Is it you? Yes, it's you!"

"Can't you concentrate on anything for more than fifteen seconds?" Lovino's angry question startled the cat and with a little mewl of complaint she shot out of Feliciano's grip and slunk out, glaring balefully at Lovino.

"Aw, Lovi, you upset her!" Feliciano complained, then seemed to suddenly remember what they were supposed to be talking about. "So, what were you saying about that man you met?"

"I wasn't saying anything. It was you who was asking me questions."

"So you don't miss him at all?" Feliciano asked, a probing question that showed he didn't quite believe his brother's nonchalance.

"Not at all." Lovino lied, feeling his heart beginning to break.

That night, curled uncomfortably in his narrow bed, Lovino replayed the conversation in his mind. He wished that he could have Antonio with him, as he had wished every day since leaving Seville. He wondered if Antonio had found someone else by now, if another man – or woman, since he had never got any sort of evidence as to his preferences – twirled like a gymnast's ribbon to the unbridled, passionate melody of the guitar. With a little frisson of joy, he remembered Antonio's hand resting on his lower back like it belonged there as they danced without music, thrilling in the solitude of night. He wondered if Antonio ever thought of him and if he did, what he thought. After all, Lovino had shown him nothing but rudeness and contempt, the imperious haughtiness of someone who was a master of their art. Except… He wasn't really a master, and he realised that he must have seemed somewhat pitiful – a vain young man too conceited to see that he did need others in order to achieve his goal. He had been using Antonio. He had only wanted him so that he would help him enter the world of the flamenco dancers. He was normally so good at this, at divorcing himself from the emotional side of things. Falling for Antonio had never been part of his plan. Then again, things never did go according to plan for him. He shifted so that he was pressed up against the wall. Feliciano, he knew, was on the other side, most likely dreaming untroubled dreams of Ludwig, kittens and new paint supplies. Lovino felt a pain in his throat and his vision began to blur with tears that swelled and swelled until they finally spilled over, dampening the bedsheets. And yet, even as he thought these things, he knew there was no point in regretting his actions now. He should have acted when it mattered, and then he might have saved himself from this misery. There was nothing he could do now.

…..

"Lovi, can I ask you something?"

Lovino looked up from his revision notes, annoyed at being disturbed. "What?"

Feliciano tapped nervously on the table with a pencil. "Um… Would you let me paint you?"

"Paint me doing what? Because if you're going to make me sit there for you with no shirt on like you made Ludwig do then I swear I'll…"

"No, I was thinking more like you doing a pose from your dancing, and I could paint the background to make it look like you were in Spain. I'd call it… Well, whatever the Spanish word for 'dancer' is."

Lovino, for once, didn't dismiss the idea out of hand. Instead, he rested his hand against his cheek in an attitude of thought. It would certainly be nice to be in a painting, he mused, and maybe it would go some way to heal his wounded pride. As he thought, however, a realisation came to him. There was, however remote, a chance that Antonio would see the picture, that he would see that Lovino himself was nothing when compared to his brother's stellar talents. He feared that allowing himself to be painted would nullify his careful efforts to make himself separate from his stiflingly gifted family. He didn't want to be part of the Vargas dynasty. He wanted to be famous in his own right and if he failed, as he so far had, he wanted it to be on his own terms, not compared to his brother's unblemished successes.

"As long as you don't put my name on it." he acquiesced at length, causing Feliciano to grin widely.

"Aw Lovi, that's great! We can start whenever you want to!" His eyes had already taken on that faraway look they had when he was envisaging a painting, composing it in his mind before he set it down – on paper first, then on canvas. He had such a humility to him, Lovino thought, always acting as though the pictures were something simply given to him rather than something he had to work hard on. And it was stupid, Lovino told himself. What was the sense in being talented at something if you didn't make sure everyone knew about it? Then again, Antonio the Guitar King hid his identity behind a scarf. It was almost as if he didn't _want _people to know he had this gift.

In that moment, an idea came to him. "I know what we can put in the background." he said, the ghost of a smile rising to his lips and remaining there for a moment as he congratulated himself on his ingenuity.

….

Lovino breathed in the sweet, exotic scent of the orange as he studied it carefully. Yes, this was a good one, he decided. With a smile, he placed it in his bag. How many was that now? Six. Yes, that was a good number. There was one for every time they'd met: in the square with the orange trees, at the public dance, at the library, that wonderful night when they'd danced together, and the last time they'd seen each other, when he had pushed him away. And there was one extra, a representation of Lovino's hope that they would meet again. They glowed warmly in the Italian sunshine as he looked down at them where they nestled in the bag. The woman on the market stall gave him a quizzical look as he handed over his money for something so unpalatable but he didn't care. He had the perfect background for his portrait. It would be a bowl with these six oranges in, these six sharp Seville oranges.

He left the market in good spirits, half-wondering whether Antonio would pick up on the symbolism in the painting if he ever saw it. Then again, he had seemed somewhat… oblivious in the short time that Lovino had known him. Normally, a man like that would have infuriated him, but in Antonio the trait was somewhat charming. Then, all at once, he stopped dead. Walking along in his rare good mood, the last person he expected to meet in this rather shabby corner of Naples was his erstwhile roommate Arthur. But there was no mistaking that unkempt ash-blond hair, nor that slightly world-weary slowness to his gait.

"Good Lord! Is that you, Lovino?" Arthur exclaimed in his surprise, looking him up and down with an air of disbelief.

"Don't know who else it would be." Lovino replied shortly, trying to hide his purchases and feeling embarrassed at the impulsive, uncharacteristic romanticism that had caused him to buy them.

Arthur gave a tired laugh. "You haven't changed a bit. So tell me, what brings you here?"

"Studying."

Arthur looked at him critically. "Really? How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

Arthur looked shocked. He shook his head, a small gesture of sorrow. "God bless you." he murmured.

"What's wrong with that?" Lovino demanded.

"Oh, nothing at all. Just that you're awfully young to have had so much happen to you."

If there was one thing Lovino couldn't stand, it was pity. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Arthur smiled, a little wistfully. "I got a job with an opera company – not a singer, unfortunately, just a stagehand. But we're on tour, so it's a good way to see the world. We're doing an American tour in a year or so, so I'll resign then and join Alfred. I haven't seen him in so long,' Just then, he seemed to remember that he had an audience. "Take my advice, Lovino, and don't get involved in a long-distance relationship. It's so hard to be away from someone you love."

Lovino stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I wouldn't know." he muttered.

….

Almost two years had passed. Lovino's portrait was long finished and was now in a gallery, although he had a small postcard of it that he would never admit to carrying everywhere with him. It was a wonderful piece of work. It showed him posing elegantly in the dancer's outfit of shirt, waistcoat, tailored trousers and dance shoes, standing in a Spanish courtyard. It was painted so that he was shown from the point of view of someone standing inside the house, and in a terracotta bowl just beside the doorway were his six gleaming Seville oranges. The whole picture was composed of those Mediterranean colours: ochre, pottery red, and sandy yellow. His black clothing under the euphoric blue of the sky provided a contrast, a feeling of airiness separate from the earthy realism of the buildings and interiors.

He looked at the postcard for a long moment, then placed it carefully inside his folder and put that into his suitcase. The long-awaited third year of his studies had finally arrived, when he got to go to Spain for a year. Of course, he had chosen Seville, filling out the application form with an excited urgency he hadn't applied to his studies in two years. He would have to work, but this time he had a job lined up as well as accommodation. The job itself was boring – working in the tourist office – and the flat would have to be shared, but none of that mattered now. He was going home. He could only hope that Antonio would still be there.

"Lovi, the taxi's going to be here in fifteen minutes."

He looked up at the sound of his brother's voice, turning to study him for a moment. Feliciano had changed so much in the time they'd been living in Naples. His voice had finally broken, although it could still hardly be called deep, and he had lost his adolescent prettiness. He had grown into a handsome young man, perhaps slightly effeminate, but no longer the little boy mistaken for a girl on many occasions. Defying Lovino's cynicism, he and Ludwig were still together – in fact, they were engaged.

"Yeah, I know," he replied. "I'm nearly ready. And if I'm not by the time he gets here, that jerk driver can wait. We're paying him enough."

"It'll be lonely without you, Lovi." Feliciano said softly, his hand going to the iron cross necklace that Ludwig had given him instead of a ring. He had got into the habit of touching it whenever he was sad or worried – a frequent occurrence for someone so sensitive, as Lovino often said.

"You'll be busy. Don't you have wedding plans to make, Mrs Beilschmidt?"

Feliciano blushed. "Ludi's busy with his army officer training. We're not actually planning the wedding for a while. And I'm _not _going to be Mrs Beilschmidt. I'll be Mr Vargas-Beilschmidt." He smiled to himself, already imagining the joys of married life.

Lovino scoffed. "See? You won't miss me at all. And you can let the cat sleep in my room. Well, you can't really. But I know you will anyway." He paused. Feliciano was beginning to cry. Feeling a twinge of sadness himself, he stood up and put his arms around him. "Don't be sad, Feli. I'll only be away for a year."

"I guess so. And maybe you'll meet someone… Hey! We could have a double wedding! How cool would that be?"

"There's no way in hell I'm sharing my wedding with you!" Lovino said, although there was no malice behind it. His mind was a long way away - already in Seville, and already with Antonio.


	8. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

Arriving in Seville was like reliving the memory of a dream. In Lovino's absence, the gaps in what he remembered had been filled in with generic things, tourist-brochure ideals of the place that could just as easily have come from a painting as from his own experience. It was as though the city had aged somehow, as though some veneer had been taken down once he had lost the romance of the visitor, the attraction of the snatched moments in a place not his own. He stood at his window, a dry September breeze troubling the leaves of the orange trees down in the courtyard as he surveyed his current and former home. It was early in the morning, the buildings a warm orange in the amber light, and he allowed himself a fleeting smile as he sipped his breakfast coffee. He was home.

Today, he reflected, marked the start of his life – or perhaps its resumption. He had devised a plan, one that he was rather pleased with himself for having thought up. He would go to one of these 'Guitar King' events, dazzle the assembled dancers with his brilliance as he had before and then, at the end, leave his shoes behind as he had done the first time. He would wait for Antonio to find them, then step forward to meet him. It would be a joyful reunion, he was confident of that. In his mind, there was no room for doubts, no room to wonder if Antonio would be equally glad to see him. Because surely he would. Lovino had missed him so much that there was, to his mind, simply no way that Antonio could have felt differently. Lovino had waited for him. He had been so obviously and self-consciously single throughout university, at a time when most people were revelling in the freedom of short-term relationships, that one girl had asked him in all seriousness whether he was planning on becoming a priest. With a trace of his old arrogance, he decided that Antonio had better have been doing the same.

He drained the last few drops, savouring its bitterness, and retreated inside to prepare for his first day working at the tourist office. His flatmates, a Swiss brother and sister pair who seemed to have made it their mission to tour Europe without spending any money, were not yet up and so for the moment he had the place to himself. He didn't really need to be awake so early but he wanted to walk there, to retrace his well-worn steps and find once more the places he had known. He himself had changed, and he needed the constancy of the buildings to re-root him in the city and remind him of his purpose.

…..

"… No, it's a right at _this _junction, then _across _that road and then straight ahead until you see it. Got it?"

The grateful tourist nodded and, with a relieved smile, went out to continue her exploration. Lovino sighed to himself and wondered what to do next. It was a small office and he was the only one there, despite his glaring lack of experience. Still, at least he'd managed to keep his trademark irascibility in check, although he knew that it would take only one stupid question to change that. He felt strangely like he was in the wrong place, like everyone had disappeared and left him behind. Even the light coming through the window seemed somehow fake. Shaking his head slightly to dispel these fanciful ideas, he went over to inspect the display of leaflets in front of the desk. One in particular caught his eye, and he lifted it out. 'Guitar King Flamenco' it declared in bold letters, along with some very obviously Microsoft-clipart pictures of a dancer and a pair of castanets. He read on: 'Every Friday night, popular with tourists and locals alike. Enjoy dance at all levels of ability with live music provided by Seville's most brilliant and mysterious guitarist!' Lovino felt an involuntary shudder run through him. 'Popular with tourists' indeed, he thought indignantly. As if he had needed yet another blow to his professional pride. Still, he reminded himself, he had to be mercenary about these things. He was already twenty years old and at the height of his physical fitness. From there, it could only decline. He didn't have much time left if he wanted to forge a decent-length career.

Friday, he thought, storing the information away in his mind. The rest of the week seemed an impenetrable barrier separating him from then, but he could be patient. He had waited two years to prove his worth and see the man he hadn't been brave enough to love. Another four days would pass in an instant, and what came after, he hoped, would be completely worth the wait.

...

Lovino had an overpowering sense of having done all this before – and indeed he had. Had it really been two years, he mused, since he had last stood in this hall, surveying the diverse crowd of dancers and sipping a glass of wine to remove his inhibitions? Now, however, his eyes were firmly fixed on the stage where the masked Antonio was set to appear, and the glass he held was smudged with his nervous sweat. There was a palpable air of excitement in the room that seemed to run through everyone there, from the tourists to the locals to him, Lovino, the returned exile. He took another sip of wine and forced it down his throat, trying to ignore the apprehensive lump there. Everything would go well. There was no reason to think that it wouldn't. The wine was a dense blackness, and he stared down into it, seeing the barest hint of a reflection. He consumed the rest of it in one choking gulp. He was ready. And then, all at once, the young man who had been the reason for his return appeared on the stage.

It was Antonio, no mistake. The familiar tomato-patterned scarf was firmly in place, hiding the expression that was most likely a smile. His jade-green eyes were bright with joy as he looked at the assembled crowd – his renown was clearly growing, since there were far more people than Lovino remembered being there before. His guitar was casually slung across him and as he raised one hand in a cheerful wave, applause erupted from everyone in the room. Lovino felt his heart speed up, the flame of desire intensifying a hundred times now that he was seeing him in the flesh, like seeing a favourite painting in a museum after years of looking at reproductions. He was perfect, and Lovino realised how wrong he had been to ever cast him off in the first place.

The music started and as it did, Lovino felt his heart and soul returning. He danced like he felt: desperate and passionate and with just a touch of artistic showing off. He wasn't dressed like a typical dancer, but he had his shoes, the same ones he'd always had, and it was these that hammered against the floor with unbridled emotion. One by one, other people left off their own dances and came to gawk at him, this young, incredibly talented man who danced as if it was a love song. He would normally have gloried in all the attention but today he was out to impress one person and one person only. Periodically, he would look up from the blur that was his feet and see if Antonio was looking at him, although he never was, and Lovino had to tamp down his disappointment. He lost himself in the physicality of the dance; in the pain in his limbs, the sheen of sweat down his back and the heat that coursed through him as the dance increased in speed. That was how he dealt with things: take out the emotion, reduce them to their component parts and view them as neutral objects. The method had always worked - until he met Antonio.

Once the music had finished, Lovino finally came to a halt and let his heartbeat and breathing return to normal. He was physically exhausted but his mind was far from fatigued, focused as it was on his imminent meeting with Antonio. Now was the time to put his plan into action, he thought to himself as he went to the changing room. Somehow, he remembered the exact spot where he'd been before. He couldn't have said how he did, just that it felt right. He pulled off his flamenco shoes and replaced them with his high-tops, very obviously and deliberately leaving them on the bench. He fiddled with his jacket and bag for a few minutes, attempting to look occupied while he waited for everyone else to leave, then, when he was the only one left, stood by the outside door to wait.

After about ten minutes, the door that led to the hall creaked open and Lovino watched, heart in mouth, as Antonio came into the room. He shrank back further into the shadows, not wanting to be seen until he chose to reveal himself. He felt a thick wave of nausea beginning to rise in him. So much hinged on this moment, the summation of his years of waiting like a soldier's wife, but he refused to allow himself to feel doubt. He was confident that Antonio would be pleased to see him. There! Antonio had caught sight of the shoes and Lovino fixed his full attention on him, watching transfixed as he bent to examine them. He could hear the guitarist take a sharp, startled breath as he read the name written inside and placed them back down on the bench, unsettled. Lovino stepped forward, shrugging off his cloak of darkness. The moment had arrived.

"Remember me?" he asked, with a casualness he didn't feel.

Antonio turned around to face him, shock written plain on his face. "Lovino? What are you doing here?"

"I came back." he replied, disconcerted by Antonio's lack of enthusiasm. He didn't quite dare meet his eyes.

"I can see that. But why?"

_I wanted to see you again _he thought. "I wanted to try being a dancer again. I had to go back to Italy to study. But I'm here now." he said aloud.

Antonio ran a hand through his hair, conflicted. "I don't understand,' he said at length. "Why did you come _here _exactly? Why tonight?"

_Because I missed you, and I've missed you every day for two years. _"Because I like it here. I like dancing. I like being seen." His voice was defensive, carrying none of the emotion he didn't dare show.

"Is that what you're all about, then? Have you really changed so little? All you want to do is be famous."

No, no, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. Where was that affection that Antonio had so often shown, even when it was met with Lovino's cold opposition? "I… wanted to see you again." he admitted.

Antonio was silent for a moment, regarding Lovino with an unreadable look. "It's been two years, Lovino." he said sadly.

_And I've counted every day until we could be together. Please say you missed me. Please say you love me. _"I couldn't come before. But I'm here now." he repeated. "I… missed you." he confessed, galling though it was.

Antonio looked genuinely upset. "I… You didn't act like you liked me. I tried to be nice to you and you were always rude to me."

_I shouldn't have. I was stupid. Please, I've punished myself ever since I left. _"Well, I did." The air was charged, and Lovino came to the realisation that he had been wrong and as arrogant as always in thinking that Antonio would welcome him back with open arms.

"It's a little too late to say that now. Two years is an awfully long time to be thinking that someone hates you."

_I don't hate you. I never hated you. I love you and I should have told you but I was too scared. _"I didn't hate you, I just…"

Antonio shook his head. "Please, Lovi. You're just making this difficult,' He gestured to the shoes that lay forgotten on the bench. "Don't forget these." he said, sounding defeated as he turned to leave.

"Keep them. I don't need them anymore." Lovino replied bleakly, going out before he began to cry.

_I missed you, I really did. I remember every time we met – when and where and what we said. I was wrong to keep things from you, wrong to use you the way I did. The night we danced, with your hand against my back and the other holding mine and the way you moved so beautifully, that was the best night of my life. I'm sorry I hurt you and I'm sorry I made you think I didn't care. Please give me another chance. I love you. I don't know what I was expecting when I saw you today but I wish you loved me back. I wish I hadn't pushed you away because now I need you. I've loved you for so long._

As Lovino walked away from the dance hall in a daze, the things he should have said echoed horribly loudly in his mind. He still couldn't quite believe how badly the meeting had gone and he was truly ashamed at how obviously hurt Antonio had been by his previous conduct. He had never hated himself more than he did in that moment. He went aimlessly along the streets made alien by the darkness, cursing himself with every step and feeling his vision blur more and more as the tears continued to well up and spill over. He didn't care that he'd left his shoes behind, for they carried too many memories of him and Antonio – the shoes represented dancing, after all, the thing that had both united and divided the two of them. He should never have come back. He should have found someone else or been content with loneliness. The streets wound in unfamiliar patterns and he took corners without thinking about it, not caring about being out alone at such an unholy hour of the night. His heart was breaking, scattering little fragments of it on the pavement as he went along. But this was what he should have expected. He had never shown anyone love, so there was no reason to expect it back. Antonio. Feliciano. Giulio. They were the only three people who had ever mattered to him and one was dead, another was hundreds of miles away and the third wanted nothing to do with him.

All at once, the street he had been going along opened out into a small square. He stumbled into it and raised his eyes from the ground. What he saw hit him with the violent jolt of familiarity. Here, he had met Antonio for the first time. It was almost unchanged: the benches, the orange trees, the tall buildings surrounding it. If he had been asked to show the exact spot where Antonio had been leaning against the wall, he could have done it without hesitation. And the orange trees, where his overweening pride had first shown itself, the arrogance that had come to define his relationship with Antonio. On impulse, he roughly pulled a fruit from the branches of the nearest tree and peeled it slowly, as he had done at that first meeting. Once this was done, he took the first segment and placed it in his mouth. He bit down hard, feeling the acidic spray of juice that seared his throat. _That's it, choke it down. Swallow the bitterness. It's nothing more than what you deserve _the voice in his head told him, its snide tone so like the one he himself so often employed. His tears mingled with the dripping juice and he gagged on the violence of the taste, the sourness beginning to dull his mouth. He took another segment, then another, punishing himself in a sort of ritual. He knew he deserved this misery and he accepted it uncomplainingly.

_Why me? _he thought wretchedly. _Why am I so cursed? Why am I the darkness and Feliciano the light?_ He finished the first half of the orange and tossed the other on the ground, grinding it under his heel and gaining savage satisfaction from its visceral squelch and the burst of citrus scent that arose from it. The voice in his head answered his desperate question unbidden. _Because Feliciano is beautiful_ it said silkily _and you are ugly. Because he is love and you are hate, he is joy and you are sorrow. And where he shows affection, you show contempt._

He turned his face to the sky, as if hoping for some sort of blessing from a god he didn't really believe in. Love is pain, he reflected, as so many infatuated young men had before. He decided then, with new conviction, that he would win Antonio back. He wouldn't straight out say everything he was thinking, of course – that just wasn't his style. But he would certainly try to be a little friendlier. He was beginning to regret leaving his shoes behind, for one thing. So his first mission would be to get them back. And if he managed to forge a career as well then that would only be a bonus.

...

**Author's Note: Aw, poor Lovi! I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter - once again, thanks for reviewing, favouriting and following the last chapter - 47 follows is just amazing, and I can assure you I really appreciate all of you guys wanting to find out what happens next! Anyway, for the next three weeks I'll be on holiday in America (yay!) so I may not be able to update for a little while. Sorry!**


End file.
